tyrj^yEx^.-.p^gjEET;e^^»tT.'gtMr<ik«.j:.y^l 


I 


?^- 


/ffin^^ 


4^ 


/ 


C&co.^^.  ^^^vti  y^A^  /.fc,-^^. 


"Buona^  la  signoria  d'Amore,  per6  che  trae  lontendi- 
mento  del  suo  fedele  da  lutte  le  vili  cose.  .  .  .  Nonbuona 
e  la  signoria  d'Amore,  peroche  quanto  lo  suo  fedele  piu 
fede  gli  porta,  tanto  piu  gravi  e  dolorcsi  punti  gli  conviene 
passare." — Dante,  Vita  Nuova  XIII. 

"  The  lordship  of  Love  is  good,  in  that  it  withdraweth 
the  inclination  of  his  liegeman  from  all  vile  things.  .  .  . 
The  lordship  of  Love  is  not  good,  because  the  more  fidelity 
his  liegeman  beareth  to  him,  so  much  the  heavier  and  more 
grievous  trials  he  must  needs  endure." — Vita  Nuova. 


Copyright,  1897, 
By  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1897, 
By  the  press  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Olie  New  York  World) 


All  rights  reserved 


C    C  I 


«  •  ■ 


c    «    « 

ft 


4615 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Robert  Orange  spent  his  childhood  in  an  ancient  for- 
tress built  high  on  a  great  rock  on  the  northern  coast  of 
France.  When  he  grew  to  be  a  lad,  he  used  to  climb  up 
on  the  ramparts  and  look  toward  the  land  he  had  never 
seen,  yet  which  he  knew  well  was  his  own  country.  The 
stern,  immutable  building  in  which  he  lived  had  been,  in 
glorious  days,  the  feudal  stronghold  of  a  grand  Seigneur. 
Its  gabled  roof  and  lofty  chimneys,  where  pigeons  built 
their  nests,  towered  above  the  town-walls,  and  frowned 
at  the  rosy  rising  of  the  sun.  Now  it  belonged  to 
Robert's  god-mother — a  banker's  widow  and  a  good  soul — 
who,  it  was  said,  had  a  large  fortune  and  no  heir-at-law. 
She  kept  geraniums  and  marigolds  on  her  balcony  in  the 
spring-time,  and  her  little  salon,  with  its  white  panelling 
and  water-color  sketches,  its  gilt  chairs  and  volumes  of 
unread  Lamartine,  was  called  by  priests  and  warriors  a 
paradise.  But  to  the  boy  who  loved  Homer,  and  Amadis 
of  Gaul,  and  Le  Jlfor/e  d'ArlJnir,  it  seemed  insipid.  He 
would  steal  away  to  a  desolate  lower  chamber  where  the 
dim  drama  on  the  fading  tapestries  passed  into  his  own 
experience  and  seemed  his  real  life  :  that,  lived  in  com- 
pany, was,  in  comparison,  a  grotesque  dream.     On   his 

I 


^fX^^A/l 


2  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

eighteenth  birthday,  his  god-mother  prepared  a  large 
oppressive  supper  of  food  out  of  season,  to  which  all  the 
rich,  all  the  amiable  and  all  the  pious  of  her  acquaintance 
were  invited.  The  guests,  who  were  mostly  of  ripe  years, 
enjoyed  the  evening  to  excess,  ate  and  drank  with  easy 
stomachs,  and  played  cards  till  daybreak.  They  toasted 
the  youth,  and  many  brought  him  gifts  ;  but  he  felt  that 
he  was  feasting  with  jailers  in  a  prison,  and  he  had  no 
thought  in  common  with  his  blessing  friends.  This  sense 
of  alienation  from  those  he  wished  to  love  produced  a 
melancholy  as  profound  as  it  was  inevitable.  On  the 
morning  after  the  festival,  he  went — although  he  was  a 
Protestant — to  the  Altar  of  Our  Lady  in  the  Cathedral, 
and  at  her  feet  laid  some  hawthorn  boup-hs  which  he  had 
gathered  from  the  hedges,  far  outside  the  town,  in  silent 
lanes.  He  said  a  prayer  and  wept  because  he  carried 
such  a  burden  of  ingratitude  on  his  soul.  An  abbe  sur- 
prised him  in  tears,  and  asked  him  the  cause. 
"I  feel  a  stranger,"  said  Robert,  "  and  a  fool!  " 
"You  must  remember,"  said  the  abbe,  kindly,  "that 
you  are  a  poet."  He  had  read  some  of  his  verses.  Then 
he  passed  on,  for  there  was  an  old  rich  rascal  waiting 
close  at  hand  to  make  his  confession. 

Robert  left  the  church  and  walked  out  toward  the  ram- 
parts. The  massive  gateway  and  encircling  walls  struck 
a  chill  to  his  passionate  soul.  Once  more  he  climbed 
the  stony  fortress  and  saw  the  sights,  heard  the  sounds 
which  had  formed  so  far  his  sentimental  education. 
Deeper  than  any  dogma,  stronger  than  his  artistic  craving 
for  beauty,  was  the  Puritan  instinct  for  health  and  neat- 
ness which  belonged  to  his  English  blood.  The  stifling 
streets,  where  poverty  and  uncleanliness  festered  into 
disease  ;  the  parched  malodorous  gardens  ;  the  tawdry 
rooms  disclosed  here  and  there  by  a  swaying  shutter  ; 
the  garbage  heaps  :  the  tinkling  of  untuned  pianos  ;  the 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  3 

scolding  of  shrews  and  the  crying  of  children,  all  mingled 
together  to  give  one  hideous  impression  of  humanity. 
The  town  seemed  a  dungeon  where  his  spirit  suffered, 
starved,  and  neither  the  azure  sky  nor  the  gilded  sun-path 
on  the  sea,  nor  the  unmeasured  yellow  sands,  nor  the 
remote  grandeur  of  the  great  horizon,  could  distract  his 
mind  from  memories  of  the  unillumined  past.  All  things 
presented  themselves  to  his  imagination  in  some  forbid- 
ding aspect.  The  Virtues  were  gaunt  mothers,  lean  and 
unloving.  The  Graces  were  harlots.  The  Muses  were 
spectral  witches  who  taught  madness.  Then  he  remem- 
bered the  tales  he  had  been  told  of  the  vast  forests  under 
the  sea  reaching  even  to  Spain — the  forests  which  had 
once  been  a  kingdom.  Wonderful  story,  and  perhaps 
all  true  !  For,  not  more  than  two  centuries  ago,  at  low 
tide  an  old  man  had  seen  the  very  tree-tops.  That  mys- 
terious kingdom  was  the  dearest  possession  of  the  boy's 
heart.  It  was  unknown,  and,  better  than  all,  never  to  be 
known.  But  that  day,  as  he  stood  wondering  what  he 
should  do  with  the  gift  of  existence,  he  seemed  to  hear  a 
singing  which  mingled  with  the  sound  of  the  waves. 
Was  there  a  choir  of  birds  in  that  forest  under  the  sea? 
They  sang  songs  of  the  land,  and  the  stars  and  earthly 
love.  And  the  singing  mixed  with  the  air  till  he  seemed 
to  breathe  it. 

"What  folly,"  he  exclaimed  at  the  notion;  "what 
folly  !  "  and  laughed  aloud. 

Flushed  and  confused,  he  turned  on  his  heel  toward  the 
town,  and  there,  standing  in  the  path,  he  saw  a  little 
strange  old  woman,  with  a  pale  luminous  face  and  gray 
hair.     She  dropped  him  a  curtsey,  and  smiled. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  country,"  she  said,  pointing  with  her 
bony  hand  toward  the  open  sea. 

The  youth  followed  her  gesture  with  his  gaze,  and 
stood  looking  with  her  at  the  great  sheet  of  water  before 


4  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

them,  which  rose  and  fell  as  though  it  lay  on  the  sleeping 
heart  of  the  universe. 

Presently  she  pointed  to  the  west. 

"Do  you  see  Miraflores  over  there.''  "  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Robert,  who  was  thinking-  of  that  castle  of 
Miraflores  "  about  two  leagues  frovi  London,  a  little  place, 
hut  the  pleasantest  abode  in  all  that  land,  in  a  wood  by  the 
side  of  a  mountain,  stir  rounded  with  orchards  and  gardens 
that  abounded  with  fruits  and  flowers.  Fountains  were  there 
in  the  courts  canopied  with  trees,  that  all  the  year  round 
bore  flower  and  fruit. "     (A  ?nadis  of  Gaul. ) 

"No,"  said  he,  drawing  a  long  sigh.  "I  don't  see  Mira- 
flores. " 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  she  said;  "it  is  where  the  trees  are  so 
dense  and  the  smoke  is  rising.      Look  again  I  " 

He  looked  again. 

"I  see  smoke  rising,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  see  trees." 

"A  lady  lives  there  all  alone,"  said  the  old  woman,  "a 
young,  beautiful  lady — the  greatest  singer,  they  say,  in 
Europe.  But  some  one  made  her  sad,  and  so  she  sings  no 
more.  She  should  have  had  more  courage.  For  my 
husband  was  drowned,  and  my  three  sons  were  drowned, 
and  I  still  make  lace  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  I  had 
neither  husband  nor  sons.  So  long  as  I  have  myself  I 
have  not  lost  everything.  One  should  not  ask  for  too 
much." 

"  Are  you  a  lace-maker?"  said  Robert. 

She  nodded  her  head. 

"I  have  sold  a  flounce  to  the  lady  at  Miraflores,"  said 
she.  "I  was  twenty  years  making  it,  and  it  is  as  fine  as 
a  mist.  But  now  I  have  sold  it  I  am  lonely,  for  all  the 
thoughts  I  have  thought,  and  all  the  love  I  felt,  and  all 
the  happiness  I  used  to  dream  of,  are  there.  And  I  wish 
I  could  buy  it  back  again.  It  will  cure  her  sorrow,  but  I 
shall  die,  monsieur.     I  am  too  old  to  sell  life.      For  my 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS  5 

lace  is  my  life — all  spun  out  of  my  soul.  There  is  no 
time  now  for  me  to  begin  aiiother  flounce  like  that.  Oh, 
it  was  so  beautiful !  " 

She  closed  her  eyes,  but  unrestrainable,  irrevocable 
tears  escaped  and  drenched  her  face.  Without  a  further 
word  she  passed  on  and  crept  down  the  stone  stairs  of 
the  ramparts  into  the  close,  dark  market-place  below, 
where  they  were  selling  pigs.  Robert  found  himself  look- 
ing with  curiosity  toward  Miraflores.  Who  was  this  singer 
who  sane  no  more.''  What  was  her  name.''  On  the  sand 
beneath  him  a  young  fisherman  whom  he  knew  sat  clean- 
ing a  boat. 

"  I  will  row  to  Miraflores,"  thought  Robert. 

*'  The  white  entrance  to  the  park  of  Miraflores  stood  " — 
so  we  read  in   Orange's  Journal — "at  tlie  end  of  a  long 
avenue  of  young  oaks,  on  either  side  of  which  little  cows 
of  a  delicate  breed  fed  on  wild  flowers  and  verdure.     The 
villa  stood  on   a  pine-wooded  hill  rising  out  of  a  river, 
facing  the  rocky  sea-coast  and  a  fair  harbor.     Its  grounds 
were  rich  with  timber  and  pathless  stretches  of  green, 
where  marguerites,  feathery  colza,  red  clover  and  a  hun- 
dred waving  grasses  grew  in   miraculous  plenty.     There 
was  no  garden,   but  there  were  winding  alleys  through 
the  park  leading  to   peeps  of  sea,  land  and  sky,  which, 
seen  through  the  framework  of  trees,  seemed  fairy  visions. 
Surely  the  birds  at  Miraflores  forever  sang,  the  sun  forever 
shone,  the  breeze  was  the  perpetual  honeyed  breath  of  an 
eternal  summer.     To  imagine  Miraflores  in  a  storm  or  in 
the  winter  was  impossible  :  it  were  easier  to  believe  that 
it  might  fade  away  and  disappear  like  some  enchanter's 
tower,  or  melt  like  the  radiant  clouds  which  sometimes 
lend  a  brief  tenderness  to  the  bleak  crags  of  an  everlasting 
mountain.      A  small    chapel   surrounded   by  palm    trees 
stood  in  the  wood  not  far  from  a  cluster  of  magnificent 
firs,  in  the  centre  of  which  one  could  suppose  an  altar  had 


6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

once  burned  to  some  Pagan  deity.  And  near  this  was  a 
levelled  terrace  in  the  Roman  style,  with  stone  benches, 
and  a  railing  heavy  with  vines.  What  flattering  hours 
could  be  spent  there  with  the  scent  of  pines  and  roses  in 
the  air,  and  at  one's  feet,  flowing  out  to  the  sea,  the  cool 
blue  river,  where,  like  giant  butterflies,  boats  with  white 
sails  floated  idly  or  waited  for  the  breeze.  Here  there 
were  no  memories  of  wild  deeds  done  in  the  past  to  ter- 
rify the  soul  or  make  the  evening  shadows  horridly  vivid. 
No  grave  was  sacred  to  the  woe  of  unhappy  loves  ;  no 
tree  marked  the  spot  where  a  hero  met  death,  or  a  faith- 
less mistress  kept  her  tryst ;  no  ancient  gateway  told  the 
tale  of  a  siege  ;  no  broken  urn  nor  fallen  tower  nor  moss- 
grown  god  brought  dismal  meditations  to  the  mind.  Mira- 
flores  had  no  history — it  was  all  new — all  fresh  ;  each  day 
the  sun  seemed  to  rise  for  the  first  time  on  a  just-created 
earth.  There  were  no  yesterdays  and  no  to-morrows.  The 
snow  of  former  years,  the  lilies  of  years  to  come,  could 
neither  bury  laughter  nor  sweeten  tears.  Time  seemed  a 
never-ending  present,  too  bright-ethereal  to  need  the  radi- 
ance of  hope,  or  to  be  darkened  by  the  forebodings  of 
experience. " 

It  was  in  the  month  of  May  when  Robert  came  to 
Miraflores.  He  rowed  from  the  sea  to  the  river,  and, 
mooring  his  boat  to  a  post,  climbed  up  the  hill  seeking  he 
knew  not  what.  And  after  wandering  through  a  wood, 
he  beheld,  on  the  terrace  far  above  him,  a  woman  read- 
ing. She  was  dressed  all  in  white,  with  a  lace  fichu 
crossed  over  her  breast,  and  her  flaxen  hair  half  hidden 
under  a  large  straw  hat.  Robert  stood  trembling — wholly 
unable  to  advance  or  to  retreat  :  his  tongue  speechless, 
yet  melodies  ineffable  in  his  heart.  He  looked  at  the 
vision  and  said  to  himself, — 

"It  is  an  apparition  !     It  will  pass  !  " 

The  woman  spoke  first. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  7 

"Why  did  you  come?"  she  asked;  "are  you  a 
stranger  ? " 

"Yes." 

"You  may  rest  here,"  she  said,  "but  it  is  well  known  in 
the  neighborhood  that  this  place  is  a  retreat.  It  belongs 
to  a  recluse." 

"I  meant  no  intrusion,"  he  replied.  "  It  was  an  impulse. 
I  will  go  away." 

The  woman  smiled. 

"You  are  a  handsome  boy,"  said  she;  "you  may  stay  a 
little  while  and  talk  to  me.  Who  are  you?  What  is  your 
name  ?  " 

"  IMy  name  is  Robert." 

"Robert— what?" 

"  Orange." 

"Are  we  compatriots ?  " 

"In  the  City  of  God — yes."' 

"Where  is  that?" 

"The  City  of  God  is  the  world  as  God  sees  it  !  "  said 
Robert. 

She  looked  at  him  with  deep  amazement. 

"What  are  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Robert. 

"  What  are  you  hoping  to  be?  " 

"A  poet." 

"The  world  wants  a  statesman,"  said  the  woman. 

"  I  have  thought  of  that,  too." 

"Then  be  a  statesman,"  she  said  quietly. 

"I  have  too  small  a  fortune.  I  must  make  money 
first." 

"  Why  not  marry  it?     That's  much  quicker." 

He  curled  his  lips.      "  I  have  certain  ideals,"  said  he. 

"  Lord  1  "  said  she,  "  so  far  as  that  goes  I  had  'em  my- 
self at  your  age.  You  are  a  dear  silly  boy,  and  I  am 
quite   fond    of  you — because    you    are   juGt  like    me.      I 


S  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

couldn't  marry  money  even  now.  I  am  one  of  those 
fools  of  women  who  go  about  falling  in  love  first  with 
this  poor  devil  and  then  with  that  !  But  don't  listen  to 
me — or  any  one  of  us.  We  give  such  bad  advice.  You 
must  travel." 

"Where.?" 

"  Everywhere.  This  Old  World  is  now  mere  literature 
— nothing  else.  It  is  the  best  of  all  possible  libraries. 
But  if  you  want  drama — if  you  want  to  see  the  stuff  that 
life  and  history  are  made  of — you  must  cross  the  Atlantic. 
I  have  been  eight  times  to  the  United  States." 

"  I  was  once  in  Paris,"  said  Robert. 

"  How  did  you  spend  your  time  there.?  " 

"  I  used  to  walk  out  to  Versailles." 

"  Hear  the  little  Cherub  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  But  I  love 
Versailles.  When  it  has  been  forgotten  for  fifty  years  it 
will  be  perfect.  I  hope  you  went  to  the  hotel,  and  had 
luncheon  on  the  terrace.     I  have  been  there  often." 

"  I  took  my  luncheon  with  me,"  said  Robert.  "  I  can- 
not afford  hotels.  But  I  went  all  over  the  palace.  It  is 
splendid,  glittering,  regal.  It  is  the  architectural  emblem 
ot  state-craft.  It  was  built  by  a  king  for  kings  ;  it  is  now 
a  holiday-house  where  any  poor  poet,  or  any  good  bour- 
geois and  his  family,  may  enjoy  their  Sunday  after- 
noons." 

"Clearly,"    said   the    woman,    "you    were   born    for 
politics." 

"  But  tell  me  about  yourself,"  said  Robert. 

"  I  am  older  than  you  are,"  she  said.  "  I  am  four-and- 
twenty." 

"  Does  that  matter ?  "  said  the  boy.  "I  want  to  know 
your  name .? " 

"My  name  is — " 

She  paused,  and  wrote  something  on  a  page  which 
•he   tore  from  her  book.     She  threw  it  over  the  railing 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  9 

and  it  fell  at  his  feet.     Picking  it  up,  he  read  the  follow- 
ing.— 
"  Henriette  Marie-Joseph  Duboc — known  professionally 

as  Madame  Duboc." 

"  But — why  Madame  ?"  asked  Robert,  turning  pale. 

"  That's  nothing,"  she  replied  briefly  ;  "  but  it  is  more 
convenient — when  one  is  travelling.  I  am  not  married. 
.  ,  .  Are  you  supposed  to  look  like  your  mother,  Inno- 
cence.'' ' 

"  I  do  not  know.     She  is  dead." 

"  Do  you  live  with  your  father  ?  " 

"No — with  my  god-mother." 

"  And  you  are  poor  ?  " 

"I  must  work  for  my  living." 

"  You  must  come  again,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  me  more 
about  your  ambition.     I  am  always  here." 

"  May  I  come  to-morrow?" 

"Perhaps." 

"And  are  you  always  alone?" 

"Alone — always." 

"  Ang-el  !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Don't  be  foolish.  I  love  sincerity.  Flattery  wounds 
me." 

"You  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  !  " 

"  Hear  him  !  "     She  appealed  to  heaven  and  the  trees. 

"  May  I  worship  you — from  afar?" 

She  smiled  coldly  and  said,  "  Ah,  yes  !  " 

"May  I  kiss  your  hand — both  your  hands?  " 

"No."     She  held  them  down. 

"I  shall  come  to-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to- 
morrow !  " 

"No, "she  said,  "no.     You  must  not.     lam  not  free." 

"Not  free?" 

His  look  terrified  her.       She  swayed   and   trembled  : 


lo  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

finally  summoned  all  her  power  of  truth  in  order  to  give 
him  perfectly  the  lie  he  begged  for. 

"I  mean — I  am  my  own  prisoner." 

He  threw  his  hat  into  the  air  and  caught  it. 

"Never  tell  me  again  that  you  are  not  free.  Not  free 
— what  ill-omened  words  !  We  were  predestined  for  each 
other  before  the  beginning  of  the  world.  I  have  no  doubt 
otit."      - 

The  calm  scene,  the  quiet  air,  the  murmuring  of  doves 
in  the  distance,  worked  like  a  spell.  It  was  not  heaven 
opening,  but  a  vision  of  earth.  He  would  have  enjoyed 
it  irresponsibly — accepting  it  as  a  due.  But  to  the 
woman  it  was  a  promise — a  blessing  dependent  on  cer- 
tain conditions. 

"  You  must  work,"  she  said  ;  "for  your  age  you  have 
done  well.     But  you  must  do  better." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  the  youth. 

"If  you  come  to-morrow,  when  may  I  expect  you?" 

"At  this  hour." 

" The  view,"  she  replied,  "is  even  clearer  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

' '  Then  I  shall  come  in  the  morning.  But  not  to  see  the 
view." 

"  Now  you  may  go  home  and  forget  me." 

"  My  destiny  !  "  he  cried,  and  held  out  his  arms, 

"  If  you  follow  that  path, "  she  said,  ' '  it  leads  up  here  I  " 

"  There — where  you  are  standing  ?  " 

"  I  think  so." 

"  It  is  quicker  to  climb." 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time,"  said  Henriette. 

"  True.  Why  should  an  immortal  soul  be  impatient  ? 
There  is  all  eternity  before  us  !  " 

He  had  now  one  foot  on  the  railing.  Another  second, 
and  he  was  standing  by  her  side.  But  with  this  nearness 
he  felt  a  fear. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  ii 

"  I  am  afraid  of  you,"  he  said,  at  once. 

•'Why  ?  "  asked  Henriette. 

"  I  don't  know  why." 

.She  wore  on  a  chain  round  her  neck  a  little  trinket.  It 
was  a  single  ruby  set  in  pearls. 

"  Take  this,"  she  said,  "  and  I  belong  to  it.  It  means 
love  and  tears."  But  before  he  could  speak  or  thank  her 
for  that  dear  yet  terrible  gift,  she  glided  away  and  he  dared 
not  follow. 

In  his  boy's  nature,  passion  still  lay  profoundly  dor- 
mant, but  in  its  place  he  felt  that  infinite  vague  longing 
of  the  soul  for  an  answering  voice.  What  to  him  had 
been  the  nightingale's  note  or  the  coming  of  May  or  the 
blue  pinions  of  a  night  in  June  ?  What  to  him  were  rev- 
eries at  evening  or  the  murmuring  serenades  of  the  sum- 
mer sea?  Had  he  not  been  alone  and  solitary — compan- 
ionless,  misunderstanding  and  misunderstood  .''  But  now 
it  was  all  changed.  It  seemed  as  though  his  spirit  had 
mixed  and  mingled  with  the  sanguine  springs  and  sacred 
flames  of  life.  The  emanations  of  ideal  beauty  which 
float  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth  now  seemed  one  with 
his  own  being.  It  was  all  his — all  part  of  himself — the 
sunshine,  the  ecstasy,  the  illimitable  illusions  of  land  and 
ether.  His  soul  was  swayed  by  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
and,  swinging  with  the  planets  in  their  course,  he  saw 
the  stars  dance,  he  followed  the  eagle's  flight.  He  was 
no  longer  a  stranger  in  the  world — no  longer  a  wandering 
outcast.  Had  he  not  heard  the  secret  language  of  the 
gods,  and  tasted  the  unforgettable  sweetness  of  love's  first 
rapture  ?  His  happiness  lay  too  deep  for  song  ;  even  the 
splash  of  his  oars  on  the  water  disturbed  the  peace  of  that 
enthralling  hour. 

It  was  late  when  he  reached  home.  His  god-mother, 
as  he  entered  the  house,  peeped,  in  her  little  frilled  night- 
cap, over  the  staircase. 


12  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  I  have  put  your  supper  by  your  bedside,"  said  she  ; 
"but  if  you  want  cider  you  must  fetch  it  from  the 
cellar." 

He  kissed  his  hand  to  her,  and  waited  till  he  heard  the 
last  echo  of  her  footsteps  in  the  corridor.  Then  he  crept 
noiselessly  to  bed,  where,  with  a  wild  sob  of  supreme  re- 
lief, of  a  gladness  so  great  that  it  weighed  upon  his  heart 
like  grief,  he  fell  asleep.  He  dreamt  that  he  went  to 
Mirafiores  on  the  morrow.  It  seemed  a  still  sunnier  day. 
The  sea  and  the  river  were  dazzling ;  the  birds  sang  ;  the 
path  was  pink  with  fallen  hawthorn  blossoms  ;  Henriette 
wore  a  rosy  gown.  She  was  beautiful,  smiling  and  tran- 
quil. He  noticed  that  her  eyes  were  not,  as  he  had  at 
first  supposed,  dark  blue.     They  were  hazel. 

For  some  moments  neither  of  them  spoke.  They  were 
too  happy. 

"Of  course,"  said  Henriette,  touching  his  face  with  her 
fingers  suddenly,  "this  cannot  last." 

"Why  remind  me  of  that?"  he  asked;  "you  may  as 
well  say  it  will  rain  some  day.  One  knows  these  things. 
They  do  not  matter.  The  rain,  on  the  other  hand,  does 
not  rain  forever.     Be  philosophical." 

"This  is  not  philosophy — this  is  drifting." 

"Then  why  not  drift.?" 

"Very  well,"  said  she. 

"  Would  you  be  willing  to  live  in  England.-*"  he  ob- 
served. 

"  With  you— yes." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  again  they  plunged  together 
into  silence.  Presently  he  explained  the  simple  scheme 
of  their  perfect  future.      He  wound  up  by  saying, — 

"What  do  you  think.?" 

"  I  agree  with  all  you  say." 

"Darling!  " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.      "Oh,  that  it  were  possible  ! 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  13 

But  this  is  all  mockery,  dear  love.  We  see  each  other  as 
we  are  not ;  we  talk  of  life  as  it  can  never  be." 

"This  is  not  mockery,  and  it  must  be,"  he  declared  ; 
"  life  is  not  what  we  find  it,  but  what  we  make  it." 

She  wept,  shook  her  head  and  repeated, — 

"Oh,  that  it  were  possible  !  " 

"Speak  plainer,  my  heart.      Why  is  it  impossible.?" 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  added  quickly,  "that  I  wore 
my  best  clothes  and  sat  on  the  terrace  yesterday.  None 
of  this  need  have  happened.      It  is  such  a  pity  !  " 

"  We  should  not  have  met,"  said  Robert,  quietly,  "if 
it  was  all  to  end  in  bitterness  or  nothing.  I  can  never 
love  any  one  else." 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said  simply. 

In  the  joy  of  her  presence  he  could  not  measure  his 
desolation — his  despair. 

"  I  shall  thank  God  every  night  and  morning  of  my  life 
hereafter  for  giving  me  the  love  of  you, "  said  he.  "I  shall 
love  you  for  ever  and  ever,  Henriette. " 

' '  Why  make  rash  vows  ?  You  do  not  ask  me  to  promise 
anything.'  " 

"Be  yourself — always." 

He  set  his  face  toward  the  sea  which  called  him 
hence — not  with  unkindness  but  with  a  solemn  warn- 
ing. 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Henriette,  "  I  cannot  send  you  away  ! 
I  cannot  spare  you  !     I  cannot  say  good-bye  !  " 

She  looked,  as  she  spoke,  not  at  him,  but  at  the  boat  on 
the  beach  below. 

"  I  cannot  say  good-bye,"  she  repeated,  and  sank  down 
weeping  bitterly.  "  I  can't !  I  can't!  I  have  had  so 
much  trouble.  Don't  ask  me  to  bear  more.  I  know  this 
is  a  fairy  tale,  but  I  want  it  to  last  !  Oh,  stay  a  little  while 
longer  !  " 

"Come,"   sang   the  sea.      ''Come!     There  is  a  summer 


14  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

every  year,   and  there  is  love  in  every  life !    But  it  is  not 
always  summer,  and  it  is  not  always  the  time  to  love  !  " 

"Oh,  stay  a  little  while  longer!"  sobbed  Henriette, 
and  she  walked  weeping  by  his  side  to  the  boat. 

"  Oh,  stay!  "  she  said,  and,  stooping  down,  kissed  each 
oar.  He  pushed  away  from  the  shore.  She  waved  her 
handkerchief  again  and  again  and  again.  The  salt  breeze 
kissed  his  face,  and  he  woke  with  a  cry.  That  dream 
was  over. 

He  looked  around.  He  lay  in  his  own  little  room 
overlooking  the  quay.  It  was  early  morning,  but  the  sun 
did  not  shine.  A  gale  was  blowing  hard,  and  the  sea 
laughed.  Robert  pressed  Henriette's  trinket  closer  to  his 
heart,  and  gained  courage.  What  were  dreams  .-'  She  was 
a  real  woman.  He  was  to  see  her  in  a  few  hours'  time. 
He  dressed,  and  hurried  out  on  the  ramparts  to  look 
towards  Miraflores.  No  smoke  rose  above  the  trees  ;  the 
leaves  were  pale. 

"  Good  day,  monsieur,"  said  some  one. 

He  turned  and  saw  the  lace-maker. 

"  She  has  gone, " said  she, with  a  wise  smile  ;  "she  went 
to  Paris  this  morning  by  the  five  o'clock  train.  Her  lover 
returned,  and  he  has  gone  away  with  her.  And  she  wore 
my  lace  flounce  on  her  under-petticoat.  I  saw  her  step 
out  of  the  carriage,  and  she  tore  the  lace,  too — my 
beautiful  lace.  But  that  did  not  matter  to  her.  She 
pinned  it  up  and  smiled.  I  felt  the  pin  all  over  me — in 
my  heart  and  in  my  eyes.  Did  I  not  prophesy  that  her 
luck  would  change  ?  Her  life  is  just  beginning — that  is  all. 
She  went  away  laughing  and  singing.  And  she  pointed 
over  there  and  waved  her  handkerchief  at  the  air  again 
and  again  and  again  1     She's  a  great  cocotte." 

"  What  is  that?  "  asked  Robert. 

"  Mo?i  Dieu!"  said  the  old  woman,  "have  you  never 
met  one  ?  " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  ir 

''  Never,"  said  the  boy. 

"  They  are  very  pretty,  and  they  want  money,  and 
they  tell  lies.     Why  do  you  close  your  eyes,  monsieur?" 

"  The  glare  is  too  strong,''  said  Robert.  "I  must  go 
home." 


x6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Blindly  the  boy  looked  homeward,  and  the  prison- 
house  now  seemed  the  one  corner  in  this  great  world 
where  he  could  take  his  grief.  His  mind  was  suffering  its 
first  real  disillusion,  and  all  the  tender  exalted  emotions 
which  love  had  called  forth  now  returned  to  him  all  the 
stronger  for  their  flight ;  but  alas  !  now  bitter  and  disdain- 
ful from  the  fruitlessness  of  the  journey.  He  longed  to 
weep,  but  the  pride  of  his  soul  forbade  that  sensual  relief. 
His  eyes  might  burn,  and  his  heart  might  ache,  and  his 
limbs  might  fail,  but  the  spirit  within  him  retained  its 
resolution.  Yet  what  could  he  do  ?  Should  he  follow 
Henriette  to  Paris,  challenge  her  lover,  then  kill  him  or 
perish  in  the  attempt  ?  He  would  die  gladly  because  he 
was  jealous  for  her  honor,  and  because  he  could  neither 
see  himself  betrayed,  nor,  having  been  betrayed,  forgive 
her.  Why  had  she  been  so  false  ?  He  would  cast  himself 
dying  on  her  threshold,  and  tell  her  what  a  thing  it  was 
to  play  with  the  souls  of  men.  Perhaps  in  death  he  would 
find  great  eloquence,  and  utter  words  that  would  sing  in 
her  ears — (Oh,  those  little  ears  made  to  be  kissed  !) — 
forever  !  Then  he  thought  that  was  perhaps  too  weak  a 
part  to  play.  He  would  seek  her  out,  accuse  her  of  her 
perjfidy,  and  slay  her  swiftly  before  she  could  woo  him 
into  cowardice.  The  poor  boy  suffered  as  all  young, 
ardent,  candid  creatures  must  suffer  when  they  make 
mistakes  and  are  deceived,  not  by  life,  but  by  their  own 
inexperience.  Robert's  intelligence  was  too  pure  in 
quality  to  confound  even  this  first  overwhelming  and  ap- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  17 

parently  inexplicable  disappointment  with  any  foolish 
theory  adverse  to  the  wisdom  of  Divine  Providence.  A 
sigh  certainly  escaped  his  lips  that  the  discipline  of  life 
should  be  so  severe,  but  he  never  doubted  that  the  trial 
was  a  discipline,  and  a  necessary  one.  He  felt,  too,  that 
he  had  deliberately  sought  an  adventure  by  rowing  to  the 
strange  villa  of  Miraflores.  Was  God  to  blame  because 
the  adventure  had  ended  unhappily?  Nay  ;  the  example 
of  the  knights  of  old  had  taught  him  a  deeper  philosophy 
than  the  art  of  whining.  He  lifted  up  his  head  and  bit 
the  sob  which,  in  spite  of  his  endeavors,  reminded  him 
of  man's  native  frailty.  He  would  seek  out  Henriette; 
he  would  give  her  back  the  bauble  she  had  so  freely,  so 
graciously  liestowed  ;  he  would  show  her  the  scorn  of  an 
upright  and  honest  soul.     At  least  she  should  respect  him. 

When  he  reached  home,  his  god-mother  was  not  yet  in 
the  little  salon.  He  was  able  to  climb  the  stairs  to  his 
room  unobserved  and  unquestioned.  He  opened  his 
money-box,  and  found  that  he  had  just  one  hundred  francs. 
That  would  be  enough  for  his  needs,  if  he  were  careful. 
He  could  walk  to  Paris.  Pierre-Joseph,  the  net-mender, 
had  walked  all  the  way  to  IMarseilles  in  order  to  speak  his 
mind  to  an  evil  daughter ;  and  he  was  far  stronger  than 
old  Pierre-Joseph.  But  what  should  he  tell  his  god- 
mother.? What  excuse  could  he  give  for  leaving  home  so 
suddenly.?  It  was  plainly  his  duty  to  consult  Madame 
Bertin  in  the  matter. 

He  went  to  her  boudoir,  tapped  at  the  door,  and,  in 
reply  to  a  soft  husky  voice,  entered  the  room. 

Madame  Bertin  lay  upon  her  sofa,  with  a  light  falling 
in  through  the  half-closed  blinds  upon  her  long  white 
hands — the  one  beauty  still  left  to  her.  All  the  rest  was 
in  shadow.  The  boy  imagined  her  leaden  face,  with  its 
dim  eyes  and  falsely  patient  smile. 

"  Well,  Robert,"  she  said,   "  what  do  you  want  ?  " 


i8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  I  want  to  go  away  for  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks." 

"Where?" 

"To  Paris." 

"What  for.?" 

"  To  see  some  one." 

"Who?" 

"A  friend." 

"  Can  you  afford  the  journey  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  I  walk  both  ways." 

"  What  a  mad  idea  !  " 

"  I  must  go." 

"  Who  is  the  friend?" 

"  It  is  a  friend  who  has  deceived  m^.  T  cannot  tell  you 
more  than  that." 

Madame  Bertin  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  will  have  no  nonsense  with  girls,"  she  said. 

"  This  is  no  question  of  nonsense  ;  it  is  very  serious." 

Again  she  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

' '  They  always  say  that.  I  do  not  care  who  the  woman 
is — she  isn't  worth  it." 

"  Have  I  said  it  was  a  woman  ? " 

"  Don't  prove  her  bad  influence,  my  dear  Robert,  by 
trying  to  deceive  me.  Of  course  it  is  a  woman.  What 
does  she  look  like  ?     How  old  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  told  me  she  was  four-and-twenty." 

"  In  that  case  you  may  go  and  see  her.  She  is  old 
enough  to  take  care  of  herself.     Where  does  she  live?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  That's  a  comfort.  Good-bye,  my  child.  If  youhave 
time,  you  might  buy  me  some  gloves  at  Alexandrine's.  You 
will  find  some  money  in  that  drawer." 

He  went  to  the  little  cabinet  to  which  she  pointed,  and, 
opening  a  drawer,  found  it  full  of  twenty-franc  gold 
pieces. 

"  Take  one,  "said  Madame  Bertin.     "Pay  for  the  gloves, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  19 

and  bring  me  back  the  change.  When  do  you  start  on 
your  walk .''  " 

"  At  once." 

"  Good-bye  again." 

"  Good-bye." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  as  though  he  would  have  said 
more,  but  his  god-mother  waved  him  away.  He  won- 
dered whether  she  were  vexed,  and,  as  he  reached  the 
door,  he  turned  round  to  throw  lier  a  conciliatory  glance. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  said  Madame  Bertin  ;  "I  understand. 
It  is  not  your  fault  that  you  are  young  and  ridiculous. 
Another  kiss  !     Adieu,  cher  enfant!  " 

So  that  was  all  !  The  dreaded  interview  was  over. 
What  a  sensible  woman  she  was  !  How  well  she  under- 
stood men  !  In  less  than  an  hour  he  found  himself 
following  the  railway  line  to  Paris,  flourishing  a  stick  in 
his  hand,  and  barely  conscious  of  the  light  knapsack 
which  he  bore  strapped  across  his  shoulders. 

He  spent  eight  days  on  the  road — walking  some  thirty 
odd  miles  between  each  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  sleeping 
at  night  under  hayricks  or  in  carts.  He  bought  his  food 
from  the  peasants  who  worked  in  the  fields,  or  from  those 
who  were  driving  cattle  to  market.  They  thought  him 
an  artist,  and  therefore  treated  him  as  though  he  were  a 
lost  child  roaming  through  the  world  at  leisure.  It  was 
infinitely  touching  to  see  the  kindness  and  rough  pity  of 
these  toiling,  tired  souls  for  that  lad  whose  troubles  so  far 
had  been  but  a  gentle  tuning-up  of  the  heart  strings.  Of 
pain,  of  poverty,  of  adversity,  of  disease  and  death  he 
knew  nothing,  He  was  eighteen  ;  he  had  seen  a  pretty 
face,  heard  a  thrilling  voice  ;  he  had  loved  both,  he  had 
been  deceived.  Yet  how  much  older  and  wiser  he  felt 
than  Jacques,  whose  back  was  curved  like  the  sickle  he 
had  used  too  long  ;  or  Lise,  who  washed  clothes  in  a 
muddy  stream  while  her  husband  lay  dreaming  in  drunk' 


20  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

enness  by  her  side.  We  may  imagine  the  egoism  of  this 
vigorous,  round-limbed  boy  as  he  tramped  along,  forget- 
ting often  the  very  object  of  his  journey  in  the  mere  bodily 
pleasure  of  exercise  in  the  fresh  air,  and  the  eye's  delight 
in  new  scenes.  Sometimes  he  sang,  sometimes  he  mur- 
mured a  childish  prayer — made  in  rhymes  so  that  it 
might  be  readily  remembered  ;  sometimes  he  v^diistled 
tunes  ;  sometimes  he  tried  to  imitate  the  birds  he  heard  ; 
he  barked  at  dogs ;  he  mewed  at  cats  ;  he  climbed  trees  ; 
he  carved  little  ornaments  out  of  fruit  stones  ;  he  whittled 
sticks  ;  he  had  a  hght  or  two  with  some  louts  who  inter- 
fered with  him  ;  he  punched  a  few  heads  and  received  a 
blow  on  his  own  nose.  It  must  be  owned  that  he  en- 
joyed himself  thoroughly,  and  it  was  not  until  he  saw  the 
lights  ot  the  metropolis  in  the  distance  that  a  cloud  came 
over  his  spirit. 

She  was  there — the  traitress,  the  enchantress,  the 
deceiver — Henriette  Marie-Joseph  Duboc.  How  madly 
he  had  loved  her!  how  madly  he  loved  her  still  !  He 
reached  Paris  at  an  hour  when  the  streets  are  compara- 
tively quiet.  The  rioting  and  gayety  associated  with  every 
great  capital  were  within  doors  ;  the  theatres  and  music- 
halls  had  not  yet  released  their  patrons  ;  the  cafes  were 
deserted  and  the  boulevards  forlorn.  Robert  knew  Paris 
well.  He  had  spent  a  year  there  when  he  was  fifteen, 
and  he  experienced  none  of  the  emotions  which  are 
supposed  to  overwhelm  the  countryman  when  he  enters, 
for  the  first  time,  the  most  brilliant,  the  most  beautiful, 
the  most  compelling  in  its  influence  of  all  cities  in  the 
world.  Robert  at  that  moment  was  blind  to  every  sight, 
and  heedless  of  every  consideration  save  one.  He  looked 
into  every  passing  carriage — his  heart  beating  wildly 
with  the  fear,  the  hope,  the  certainty  that  Henriette  would 
be  seated  within  one  or  another.  This  was  she !  No. 
Then  that  was  she  !     Again  and  again   he  hastened  after 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  21 

some  womanly  form  which  seemed  in  the  distance  to 
resemble  Henriette's.  Several  times  he  thought  he  heard 
her  footstep  behind  him.  He  halted  once  or  twice  at  the 
fancied  sound  of  her  voice.  He  felt  the  delicious  pressure 
of  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"When  I  see  her,"  he  thought,  "  perhaps  everything  will 
come  right.      I  have  judged  her  too  hastily." 

He  grew  sick  at  the  unconvincing  suspicion  that  he  had 
been  unjust.  What  did  he  know,  after  all  ?  Had  the  lace- 
maker  told  him  a  lie  ?  What  if  Henriette  were  ill  ?  What 
if  she  were  dead.-*  At  the  mere  thought  he  felt  a  cold 
sweat  on  his  brow.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  nine  days. 
The  whole  world  could  change  in  less  time.  He  passed 
a  kiosk,  and  bought  eight  or  nine  newspapers,  which  he 
studied  feverishly.  He  could  find  nothing.  The  pangs 
of  boyish  hunger  added  ferocity  to  his  disappointment. 
He  entered  a  quiet  restaurant  and  ordered  some  dinner. 
But,  to  his  own  surprise,  when  it  was  put  before  him  he 
found  himself  unable  to  eat  a  morsel.  The  soul — in  spite 
of  all  scientific  demonstrations  to  the  contrary — is  even 
stronger  than  either  youth  or  health.  So,  while  the  roast 
chicken  grew  cold,  and  the  salad  became  sodden  and 
the  bottle  of  wine  remained  untasted,  Robert  sat  there, 
crumbling  the  bread  with  his  fingers,  and  drinking  his 
own  tears. 

Suddenly,  however,  his  eye  was  attracted  by  a  flaming 
theatre  bill  which,  pasted  on  a  kiosk  outside  the  window, 
announced,  in  black  and  red  lettering,  that  Madame  Hen- 
riette Duboc  was  appearing  for  one  week  only  at  Zes  Pa- 
pillons.  His  head  swam  :  he  read  the  name  a  dozen  times. 
He  had  never  before  seen  it  in  print.  It  seemed  as  ter- 
rible as  the  mysterious  writing  on  the  wall  of  King  Bel- 
shazzars  palace — Madame  Henriette  Duhoc.  Then,  indeed, 
he  was  able  to  swallow  a  little  wine,  if  only  to  assure  him- 
self that  he  was  not  dreaming.     He  paid  his  bill,  and,  rush- 


22  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ing  out  into  the  street,  hailed  a  fiacre.  How  lucky  it  was 
that  he  had  kept  the  greater  part  of  his  money  for  Paris. 
"  Drive  to  Les  Papillons"  he  told  the  driver.  A  flick  of 
the  whip,  and  they  started.  The  boy's  pulse  throbbed  ; 
he  looked  at  the  stars,  and  they,  too,  seemed  to  be  trem- 
bling. What  painful  sensations  surged  in  his  breast !  what 
piercing  thoughts  !  When  one  is  young,  high  feelings 
about  small  things  do  not  seem  ridiculous.  And,  after 
all,  what  are  small  things  but  matters  which  appear  great 
to  those  whom  they  immediately  concern  }  Poor  Robert 
was  living  through  an  experience  which  is  not  the  less 
bitter  because  it  may  be  common  in  psychology.  And 
indeed  it  is  a  question  whether  that  mental  suffering 
known  as  a  disillusion  is  so  ordinary  as  it  is  frequently 
held  to  be.  Vulgar  selfish  minds  are  still  the  rule  rather 
than  the  exception  in  the  human  race,  and  neither  vulgar 
souls  nor  selfish  souls  can  ever  know  what  it  is  to  be  dis- 
appointed in  a  sublime  belief.  For  to  imagine  excellence 
and  to  love  it — whether  it  may  be  real,  as  it  often  is,  or 
merely  supposed,  as  it  can  be  sometimes — is  not  given  to 
low  understandings.  So,  without  dwelling  on  each  par- 
ticular pang  or  each  wild  sad  idea  which  tortured  our  sen- 
sitive young  friend,  let  us  be  patient  for  him,  and  say  that 
physic  is  as  needful  for  the  spirit  as  the  flesh. 

The  famous  music-hall  for  which  he  was  bound  stands 
at  a  kind  of  cross-road.  At  night  one  can  see  from  three 
points  of  approach  its  name  in  large  letters  of  shivering 
gas — Les  Papillo?is.  As  the  fiacre  halted  at  the  entrance, 
Robert  saw  a  large  photograph  of  a  woman  in  a  gorgeous 
costume.  It  was  Henriette  !  He  thought  his  heart  would 
burst  for  sorrow  and  longing.  How  beautiful  she  was  1 
how  false  !  He  bought  his  ticket  and  hurried  through  the 
foyer,  where  a  crowd  of  more  or  less  respectable  orderly 
persons  were  eagerly  scanning  each  other  in  the  hope  of 
discovering  some  sign  of  unusual — or  even  usual — wick- 


THE  SCHOOL  l'(JR  SAINTS.  23 

edness.  Les  Papillons  is  the  resort  of  every  husband  who 
wishes  to  show  his  wife  or  her  lady  friends  the  tempta- 
tions to  which  bachelors  are  exposed.  The  amusement 
provided  there  is  of  the  most  tedious  description.  When 
Robert  gained  his  place  in  the  hall,  a  fat  man  clad  in  pink- 
hose,  and  described  in  the  programme  as  "Apollo,"  was 
performing-  feats  of  strength.  At  the  end,  he  kissed  his 
hands  elegantly,  and,  screwing  his  heavy  lips  into  a  smirk, 
knocked  down  some  twelve  cannon  balls  which  impeded 
his  exit.  The  audience  applauded,  yet  not  without  discre- 
tion. The  next  item  on  the  bill  was  a  "  legend  "  in  two 
tableaux,  with  appropriate  music.  Madame  Henriette 
Duboc  played  the  part  of  the  heroine.  The  name  of  the 
legend  was  Aniadis  and  Oriana.  It  was  arranged  by  a 
poet  whose  name  was  associated  with  that  bloodless 
effeminacy  known  to  moderns  as  rnedicEvalism,  yet  wholly 
alien  to  the  genius  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

"Surely,"  thought  Robert,  as  he  read  the  heroic  names 
oi  Aniadis  and  Oriana,  "surely  this  is  Fate!  Will  they 
give  the  scene  at  Miraflores  .?  But  oh,  what  irony  that 
any  one  so  faithless  should  play  the  part  of  the  most  faith- 
ful, most  devoted  and  most  womanly  of  women  !  " 

The  first  tableau  represents  the  rocky  entrance  to  a 
hermit's  cave.  The  orchestra,  by  means  of  wind  instru- 
ments, endeavor  to  suggest  the  nightingale's  note  and  the 
sea-gull's  shriek ;  the  drum  rolls,  the  cellos  croak ;  a  large 
sunset  illuminates  the  back  of  the  stage.  An  a^ed  man 
enters.  He  has  a  long  white  beard,  and  he  walks  to  and 
fro  with  a  laborious  totter.  At  last  he  lifts  a  hand  to  liis 
ear,  then  he  shades  his  eyes  and  looks  forth  into  the  side- 
wings.  The  orchestra  plays  louder,  there  is  a  thunder- 
clap, the  old  man  wrings  his  ever-useful  hands  ;  lightning 
flashes  into  the  sunset ;  the  violins  utter  a  terrific  note: 
who  is  this.?  A  warrior  in  steel  armor  is  seen  bounding- 
over  the  rocks.     And  what  a  warrior  !     He  wears  a  wig 


24  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

of  long  red  hair,  a  helmet  surmounted  by  nodding  plumes  ; 
his  girlish  features  are  whitened  ;  his  elongated  legs  are 
padded  into  an  unnatural  symmetry.  When  the  hermit 
invites  him  to  draw  near,  he  trips  toward  him  like  a  ballet 
master.  He  touches  his  sword,  glances  upward  in  an  at- 
titude of  devotion,  and  swears  an  inarticulate  oath  which 
every  spectator  can  readily  believe  means  vengeance. 
The  orchestra  again  intervenes.  The  note  this  time  shud- 
ders and  pipes.  The  hermit  points  to  the  left  as  a  mon- 
ster bird,  with  black  wings  and  eyes  as  big  as  lamp-globes, 
approaches  the  warrior.  This  bird  leads  the  warrior  to 
infer  that  he  will  conduct  him  to  his  destination.  And  the 
warrior,  with  a  magnificent  gesture  of  dauntless  courage, 
follows  him.     The  hermit  sinks  down  in  prayer. 

The  curtain  falls. 

When  it  rises  again,  the  scene  is  a  grotto.  A  dozen 
men  or  more  lie  fast  asleep  on  the  ground.  By  their 
carefully  gracious  attitudes,  the  green  light  and  the  slow 
music,  it  is  clear  that  they  are  the  victims  of  some  fell 
enchantment.  The  warrior  enters.  He  endeavors  to 
arouse  the  prisoners.  He  clasps  his  hands  and  shakes  his 
head  with  horror  at  their  condition.  A  dreadful  tinkling 
of  tambourines  is  heard.  He  looks.  The  back  of  the 
grotto  seems  to  melt  into  a  golden  cobweb  ;  the  cobweb 
expands  ;  the  warrior  draws  his  sword  ;  a  woman  is  seen. 
It  is  she  !  It  is  Henriette  !  Robert  almost  sprang  from 
his  seat.  She  wears  a  robe  of  gold  tinsel ;  she  shines  with 
a  hundred  false  gems  ;  she  smiles  ;  the  warrior  dashes 
forward  to  thrust  his  sword  into  her  white,  too  gleaming 
breast.  Yet  he  cannot  strike.  Three  times  he  makes  the 
essay,  and  three  times  he  sinks,  overcome  by  her  beauty, 
on  his  knee.  She  smiles  again,  holds  out  her  arms  ;  he 
flings  aside  his  sword,  and  falls  captive  at  her  feet. 

The  curtain  drops. 

That  was  the  end. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS  25 

The  "legend"  bore  no  kind  of  resemblance  to  the 
Amadi's  of  Gaul,  and  its  falseness  to  the  great  original 
marred,  for  Robert,  even  such  merits  as  it  may  have  pos- 
sessed in  the  way  of  mere  scenic  effect.  For  the  moment 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  misread,  not  a  book  only, 
but  the  whole  universe.  He  doubted  his  own  judgment, 
his  own  feeling,  his  own  sight ;  even  his  ideals  were  de- 
ceptions :  no  one  saw  things  as  he  saw  them,  or  felt  things 
as  he  felt  them. 

He  wrote  his  name  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and,  handing  it 
to  an  attendant,  asked  him  to  give  it  to  Madame  Duboc. 
Would  she  see  him  1  She  sent  back  word  that  he  might 
come  at  once. 

He  followed  his  guide  through  a  long,  narrow  passage 
and  up  a  steep  staircase,  at  the  top  of  which  a  door  stood 
partly  open. 

"  Come  in,"  said  a  soft  voice. 

He  entered. 

Henriette  sat  before  him,  in  all  the  radiance  of  tinsel 
and  sham  jewels.  He  did  not  bow,  nor  did  he  seem  to 
notice  her  outstretched  hand. 

"It  is  the  little  angel  from  Brittany, "  said  she;  "but 
where  are  his  manners?" 

"  I  cannot  bow,  madame,"  said  he,  ''  to  a  falsehood.  I 
have  brought  you  back  your  locket." 

Henriette  dropped  her  eyelids,  and  affected  a  reverie. 

"Which  locket  ?  "  said  she. 

"The  one  that  means  love  and  tears,  madame,"  he 
answered. 

He  held  it  out. 

"I  don't  want  the  thing,"  she  said  ;  "and  don't  be  so 
cross.  I  hate  cross  children — even  when  they  are  hand- 
some, and  have  splendid  brown  eyes  full  of — a  man's 
love.  Oh,  Robert.  I  could  never  resist  brown  eyes.  Sit 
down,  kiss  my  hand  and  be  kind." 


26  THE  SCHOOT,  FOR  SAINTS. 

"I  know  I  am  only  a  boy,"  said  the  lad,  "but  I  know 
what  honor  means  and  what  loyalty  means.  And  you 
have  neither." 

"Hold  your  tongue  !"  cried  Henriette,  stamping  her 
foot,  "how  dare  you ?  You  ought  to  be  whipped  !  I  be- 
lieve you  are  much  older  than  you  pretend  to  be.  To 
stand  there  lecturing !  And  I,  like  a  fool,  permit  it ! 
Mon  Dieul  is  it  conceivable?  A  little  stupid  peasant 
takes  an  excursion  ticket  to  Paris,  and — " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Robert,  "I  walked  here." 

"  Walked  here  !  "  screamed  Madame  Duboc.  ' '  Walked 
here — on  foot  from  Brittany — to  see  me.''  " 

"Yes,"  said  Robert,  "to  see  you  and  tell  you  what  I 
think  of  you." 

"But  it  is  miles  and  miles." 

"I  was  in  no  hurry,  madame.  It  is  no  happiness  to 
me  to  say  harsh  things  to  you." 

The  accent  in  which  he  uttered  these  words  was  in  it- 
self a  caress.  It  was  so  tender,  so  courageous,  so  frank, 
and  accompanied  by  a  glance  as  stern  as  it  was  pitiful. 
It  touched  the  woman,  and  reminded  her  of  her  own  in- 
nocent first  passion,  which,  when  a  girl  of  sixteen,  she 
had  felt  for  a  man  of  the  world  whose  soul  she  had  hoped 
to  save  by  offering  prayers  to  the  Virgin,  and  working 
him  slippers  for  his  birthday. 

"Oh,  my  poor  little  Robert !"  she  exclaimed,  with  a 
great  thrill  of  sympathy,  "that  is  what  I,  too,  would  have 
said  to  some  one  I  loved." 

Her  eyes  grew  dewy.  She  caught  his  cold  hand,  and 
half-timidly  stroked  it. 

"  Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "how  you  will  have  to  suffer  !  " 
Then  she  sat  down  before  the  table  of  cosmetics,  daubed 
on  more  rouge,  re-pencilled  her  eyebrows  and  pinned  a 
false  curl  under  her  crown  of  false  diamonds. 

"  How  do  I  look }  "    she  asked. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  27 

"You  are  always  beautiful!"  answered  Robert, 
choking. 

"  If  1  were  so  bad  as  you  say  1  am, "  she  sighed,  ' '  could 
I  look  so  nice?  Of  course  not.  Wicked  people  are  al- 
ways frightful.  Just  notice  my  mouth — these  curves  tell 
something  after  all.  They  mean  generosity.  Oh,  Ro- 
bert, I  am  very  much  in  love,  but  not  with  you,  dear. 
He  is  middle-aged  and  selfish  ;  his  heart  is  a  mere  salad 
of  stale  emotions.  And  I  am,  for  the  moment,  its  sauce 
mayonnaise.  Pity  me,  little,  kind,  dear  Robert.  Once 
I  thought  I  shou  Id  be  some  one's  princess,  some  one's  ideal, 
some  one's  angel.  I  thought  we  should  live  together — 
perhaps  in  a  great  palace  with  golden  gates,  perhaps  in  a 
little,  little  cottage  all  covered  with  roses  and  myrtle,  and 
birds'  nests  and  things  ;  perhaps  in  a  splendid  hotel,  where 
the  band  would  play  all  day,  and  one  could  ring  bells  for 
anything  one  wanted.     What  dreams  !  " 

The  strains  of  the  orchestra,  which  was  now  playing, 
floated  in  through  the  door,  and  that  giddy  sound  of  per- 
verted sensuality  seemed  to  Henriette  the  emotion  in  her 
own  soul. 

"What  dreams!"  she  repeated,  and  stood  entranced, 
with  her  lips  parted.      "  What  dreams  !  " 

The  music  troubled  and  swept  Robert's  senses  as 
though  they  were  young  leaves  stirred  for  the  first  time 
by  the  thrilling  breezes  of  the  spring.  He  remembered 
the  starry  silence  and  the  moonlit  night  which  had  fol- 
lowed his  one  day  of  love.  His  heart  trembled,  and  the 
air  seemed  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  the  woods  at  Mira- 
flores.  Henriette's  face — stained  though  it  was  by  paint 
— still  retained  something  of  that  innocence,  virginal  and 
innate,  which  is  the  one  permanent  charm  of  any  counte- 
nance. Robert  longed  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet  and 
entreat  her — to  do  what.''     He  did  not  know. 


28  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"It  is  not  yet  too  late,"  he  said  ;  "  you  are  so  young 
and  all  this  is  so  vulgar  !  " 

"Vulgar  ?  "  she  said,  opening  her  eyes.      "  Vulgar  ?  " 

"Yes.  That  tawdry  dress,  the  false  jewels,  the  false 
sentiment,  the  caterwauling  in  the  orchestra.  It  is  abom- 
inable !  " 

"I  like  it,"  she  said;  it  is  gay.  It  amuses  me,  and 
/amuse  all  the  tired,  overworked  people  in  the  audience. 
Don't  be  so  lamentably  serious." 

"But  you  don't  understand.  I  do  not  love  you  for 
what  you  appeared  to  be,  but  for  what  you  really  are. 
You  are  too  good  for  this." 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  dear  little  Saint  Robert? 
I  may  go  again  to  Miraflores  some  day,  and  then — and 
then — you  must  come  and  see  me,  and  we  will  talk  less 
and  perhaps  learn  more.  Oh,  I  can  be  very  kind — kinder 
than  any  one  you  ever  met.  Take  a  long  look  into  my 
eyes." 

"No,"  said  Robert.  "I  know  all  I  wish  to  know  of 
them  already.  I  don't  love  you  that  way.  It  is  not  a 
question  of  looking  into  your  eyes  or  not  looking  into 
your  eyes.  It  is  altogether  different.  If  you  were  blind 
— if  you  lost  all  your  beauty — if  you  were  pale  and  bent 
and  withered,  I  should  love  you  just  the  same.  It  is  you 
that  I  see — you  !  " 

"Of  course, "  said  Henriette  ;  "of  course.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
If  they  pay  me  three  thousand  francs  every  time  I  appear, 
I  suppose  I  must  be  worth  looking  at." 

The  boy's  eyes  filled  with  cutting  tears.  For  a  moment 
he  had  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  perplexed, 
yet  not  wholly  despairing.  But  despair  touches  the  soul 
as  though  it  were  some  idle  hand  mingling  its  fingers  with 
the  sea. 

"Oh,  Henriette!"  said  Robert,  "  you  will  never  under- 
stand me  !  " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  29 

She  yawned. 

"Everybody  understands  calf-love,"  said  she. 

His  throat  grew  dry. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  unkind,"  continued  Madame  Duboc, 
"but  I  am  too  tired  now  to  consider  any  one's  feelings 
except  my  own.  You  mustn't  be  stupid.  You  look  as 
white  as  a  sheet  and  as  cold  as  a  gravestone.  Love 
should  affect  one  pleasantly.  You  think  too  much. 
Clever  men  think  only  when  there  is  absolutely  nothing 
else  to  do." 

She  glanced  at  him  slyly.  Where  had  he  learnt  this 
self-possession  ?  His  handsome  countenance  had  grown 
calm,  not  from  indifference,  but  pride,  and  Henriette  grew 
jealous  of  its  absent  ardor.  Had  it  strayed  away  to  some 
fair,  intangible  idea  remote  from  womanly  flesh  and  blood, 
remote  from  the  human,  withering  influences  of  time  and 
change  and  passion  ?  All  women  wish  to  see  affection 
perpetually  burning — a  straight  and  brilliant  flame  ;  when 
it  flickers,  they  suffer  what  must  surely  be  the  sharpest 
pang  in  purgatory. 

"Oh,  Robert,"  she  murmured,  devouring  his  face  with 
her  gaze,  "wasn't  it  sweet  at  Miraflores.  I  can  see 
you  now  coming  toward  me — up  that  little  path  through 
the  trees.  Do  you  remember .''  I  thought  you  were  a 
wandering  angel  sent  down  from  Paradise  to  call  me  to 
repentance.  And  I  was  so  unhappy  that  day.  I  had  been 
crying  for  hours  and  hours.  I  blessed  you  for  coming, 
I  said  prayers  all  that  evening  in  my  little  chapel.  And 
about  ten  o'clock.    ..." 

"  Your  lover  came,"  said  Robert,  gravely.  His  whole 
nature  w^as  now  in  revolt  against  false  sentiment. 

A  dark  flush  surged  under  the  artificial  pink  and  white 
on  Henriette's  cheeks. 

"And  why  not.''"  said  she;  "  and  why  not.''  Surely 
the  angels  need  never  be  jealous  of  men  !  " 


30  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

He  was  silent,  but  for  the  first  time  he  glanced  about 
the  room,  which  was  lined  with  mirrors,  and  reflected 
Henriette  from  every  side.  He  seemed  surrounded  by 
a  train  of  painted  women,  each  with  the  same  face, 
the  same  smile,  the  same  form,  and  all  moving  with  a 
terrible,  inhuman  precision,  at  the  same  moment,  with 
the  same  features,  the  same  blandishments.  And  he  saw 
himself  also — ten  distinct  selves,  yet  all  the  same.  He 
could  have  cried  out  at  the  horror  of  this  illusion.  It  was 
phantasmal,  gloomy  :  a  mockery  of  life — a  mockery  of 
the  faith  so  precious  in  the  days  of  one's  vanity  that  the 
little  sum  of  sensation  which  we  call  our  own  experience 
is  intimately  and  especially  our  own — wholly  dissimilar 
from  that  of  any  other  creature.  But  it  is  the  privilege, 
and  perhaps  the  supreme  agony  of  the  gods  alone  to  feel 
unshared  emotions.  Robert — now  in  one  of  those  mo- 
ments when  the  mind  has  a  preternatural  quickness  of 
comprehension — grasped  at  this  knowledge,  and  that 
divinitv  within  him  which  is — could  we  but  realize  it — in 
all  mortals,  drew  back  disdainful  from  the  commonness 
of  the  merely  human  drama — the  eternal  duet  of  man  the 
lover,  and  woman  the  beloved. 

"  At  Miraflores,"  said  he,  "  we  were  like  spirits  in  the 
sunlight.  God  was  there.  But  here  it  is  hellish — suf- 
focating  !  Your  whole  look  has  changed.  When  I  try 
to  see  you,  there  is  a  cloud  between  us." 

Henriette  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  Protestants,"  said  she,  "are  always  thinking  of 
hell.  You  are  never  happy  unless  you  can  feel  that  all 
your  friends  are  damned.     It  is  very  iriste  and  very  rude." 

Robert  bowed, 

"  I  am  going  now,"  said  he. 

"  And  v/hat  will  you  do  .'*  " 

' '  Pray  for  you  !  " 

*' What.?"  cried  Henriette:    "what?" 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  31 

' '  Pray  for  you. " 

She  lifted  up  her  arms  with  a  fine  theatrical  gesture  of 
amazement. 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Because  I  once  caught  a  glimpse  of  your  true  self, 
and  I  loved  you." 

She  looked  at  the  reflection  of  her  own  face  in  the  mir- 
ror, and  addressed  it. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  funny  boy  as  this  ?  "  Then 
she  sprang  up,  and,  placing  a  hand  on  each  of  Robert's 
shoulders,  kissed  him  on  both  cheeks  with  a  frank,  al- 
most sisterly  affection. 

"  Pray  if  you  like,"  she  exclaimed;  "T  am  quite  sure 
that  no  one  has  ever  prayed  for  me  before.  When  I  want 
a  prayer,  I  pay  five  francs  for  a  mass.  And  that  happens 
often — far  oftener  than  you  would  believe,  my  little  Saint 
Robert  with  the  grave,  grave  eyes,  and  the  firm,  firm 
mouth,  and  the  square,  square  chin,  and  the  moustache — 
a  real  moustache — ^just  coming.  I  think  I  even  want 
you  to  pray  for  me.  There  !  I  ask  it.  I  even  beg  it  as 
a  favor.  Pray  for  me  morning  and  evening.  I  believe 
in  prayer.  It  is  the  one  irresistible  force.  All  the  clever 
men  who  come  to  my  little  suppers  admit  that.  So  pray 
as  much  as  you  can.  The  devil  will  try  to  hinder  you. 
He  will  tell  you  cruel,  bitter  things  about  me.  He  will 
make  you  lose  heart,  and  think  it  all  useless.  He  will 
say,  'She  is  hopelessly  wicked.'  Or  he  will  say,  'Don't 
waste  your  time  and  energy.'  For  if  you  pray  well,  there 
is  nothing  more  exhausting.  I  had  a  cousin  who  was  a 
priest.  They  say  he  used  to  faint  after  he  had  prayed 
very  earnestly  for  any  poor  soul.  I  can  well  believe  it — 
because  he  never  lived  to  be  an  abbe,  although  he  worked 
real  miracles.  Be  a  brave  fool,  and  don't  listen  to  any 
one.  Just  continue  your  prayers,  and — who  knows? — 
you  may  yet  meet  me  in  heaven," 


32  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

During  this  speech  she  stood  with  her  hands  still  rest- 
ing on  his  shoulders,  and  her  gaze  fixed  intently  on  his 
face. 

"  We  make  a  handsome  couple,"  said  she,  "  and  if  we 
had  wings — " 

They  heard  a  heavy  step  on  the  staircase  without. 

"  You  must  go  now,"  said  Henriette. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  panting  woman  flounced  into 
the  room. 

"  M.  le  Comte  is  coming,"  said  she. 

Madame  Duboc's  lips  parted  into  a  forced  smile. 

"Adieu,  cher  Robert,"  she  murmured,  "and  repeat  all 
the  pretty  prayers  you  know.  I  want  to  be  always 
beautiful,  always  happy,  and  always  loved.     Adieu." 

"Adieu,"  said  Robert,  white  with  sorrow. 

He  turned  and  left  her. 

Henriette  re-powdered  her  neck  and  arms. 

"Zg  pauvre  bete  gar f on,"  said  she,  "  //  a  dti  cceur  ei  .  .  . 
il  est  beau  comrne  tin  petit  amour  I " 

"  A/ou  Dieu  !"  said  \iev /enime  de  chambre,  handing  her 
the  carmine,  "is  madame  going  to  cry  about  a  child.'" 

Henriette's  eyes  were  brimming  over  with  tears. 

"Platonic  love,"  said  she,  "gets  on  my  nerves.  My 
head  aches." 


THE  bCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  33 


CHAPTER  HI. 

Robert  groped  his  way  down  to  the  staircase,  through 
the  narrow  passage  and  into  the  theatre,  where  two 
young  women  clad  in  brief  skirts  and  enormous  wigs 
were  dancing  a  breakdown.  He  went  back  mechanically 
to  his  former  seat,  and  sat  there  so  absorbed  in  thought 
that  the  music-hall,  with  its  lamps  and  gilding,  might 
have  been  a  field  of  graves,  and  the  dancers  mere  sum- 
mer flies  wantoning  on  epitaphs.  He  heard  nothing  and 
saw  no  one,  but  remained  there — praying  wild  entreaties 
for  the  soul  of  Henriette.  He  did  not  ask  himself  whether 
he  cherished  any  hope  of  ever  seeing  her  again.  It  was 
impossible,  as  matters  were,  to  find  any  happiness  in  her 
company.  He  had  no  intention  of  fighting  with  the  vul- 
gar throng  of  her  admirers  for  a  stray  smile. 

No,  if  it  were  to  mean  anything  in  his  life,  this  new- 
found intensity  of  emotion,  this  sudden  revelation  of  the 
greatest  force  in  earth  and  heaven,  he  would  have  to 
guard  it  well  and  keep  it  sacred  from  the  associations 
which  destroy  and  the  considerations  which  corrupt.  But 
the  last  words  of  his  prayer  startled  him  ;  they  came  un- 
premeditated from  his  lips,  as  though  a  need  stronger 
than  his  will — more  powerful  than  wisdom — had  found  a 
voice.  "O  God,  do  not  let  us  be  forever  separated.  Let 
her  be  mine  some  day  I  " 

The  blood  rushed  into  his  cheeks,  and,  trembling  be- 
tween a  vague  longing  and  a  deep  dread,  he  rose  from 
his  place  and  hastened  from  the  auditorium,  wholly 
unable  to  restrain  the  tumult  of  sensations  vvhich  now 
3 


34  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

possessed  him.  What  if  he  should  never  see  Henriette 
again  ?  What  if,  humanly  speaking,  she  were  never  to 
be  more  than  a  woman  whose  shadow  had  fallen  but 
momentarily  on  his  life?  Had  she  not  melted  into  his 
existence  and  become  an  indissoluble  part  of  his  career.^ 
Could  he  foresee  a  future  in  which  she  had  no  share  ? 

"Surely,"  he  thought,  ''most  of  us  have  at  certain 
moments  a  prophetic  divination  of  our  fate.  We  feel  a 
sudden  assurance  that  some  things  will  inevitably  come 
to  pass — that  this  or  that  person  will  affect  our  destinies." 

He  was  conscious  of  such  a  presentiment  with  regard 
to  Madame  Duboc,  and,  while  he  felt  unhappy,  he  lost 
that  fever  of  unrest  and  indecision  which  is  so  much 
harder  to  bear  than  a  definite  sorrow. 

He  was  already  in  sight  of  the  entrance  hall  when  the 
swinging  felt  doors  leading  thereto  were  thrown  open, 
and  a  small  foppish  man  about  two-and-forty,  who 
walked  as  though  he  were  stepping  on  to  the  scene  in 
response  to  an  enthusiastic  recall,  advanced  toward  him 
with  every  sign  of  astonishment. 

"Parflete  I  "  said  Robert,  in  a  tone  of  dismay. 

"  C'esl  hien  lui ■'  Robert,  enfiji  ■' "  said  Parflete,  with 
a  disagreeable  smile,  which  was  half  conciliatory  and 
half  a  menace,  "  depuis  quand  es-iu  id  r'  Je  sm's  bien 
heureux  de  te  voir  ■' " 

"I  wonder  that  you  have  not  forgotten  me!"  an- 
swered the  boy.  Parflete  was  one  of  his  god-mother's 
friends  who  had  once  visited  her  for  a  month  in  Brittany 
when  she  had  fled  thither  with  her  jewels  and  some  price- 
less reminiscences  of  the  Court  of  Napoleon  I.  He  was 
a  person  who  went  everywhere  and  was  acquainted  with 
every  one,  because  he  never  stayed  in  any  place  too  long, 
nor  attempted  to  know  any  one  too  well.  He  had  been 
the  tutor  of  a  royal  duke  till  he  inherited,  from  an  unex- 
pected  source,   a  handsome  property,  when   he  became 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  35 

instead  the  duke's  best  patron.  He  lived  in  Paris — if  a 
being  so  restless  could  be  said  to  live  in  any  quarter  of 
the  globe — and  he  had  shown  himself  kindly  disposed 
toward  Robert  during  his  schooldays  in  that  capital. 

The  boy,  however,  had  never  responded  to  his  interest, 
and  he  felt  now  that  there  was  something  ill-omened  in 
this  sudden  encounter  with  a  man  whom,  for  some 
reason,  he  had  always  tried  to  avoid.  He  found  it  im- 
possible to  affect  any  pleasure  at  the  meeting,  and  shrank 
back  from  the  other's  feigned  cordiality.  But  he  replied 
to  his  eager  questions  when  he  was  allowed  the  necessary 
time  for  a  reply. 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  Parflete,  dropping  the  theatrical 
French  which  he  usually  adopted  when  he  had  no  time 
to  be  civil  in  his  own  tongue.  He  chose  a  red  velvet 
sofa  at  some  distance  from  the  string-band  which  was 
playing  in  the/qyer.  (There  are  two  orchestras  at  Les 
Papillons,  one  in  front  of  the  stage,  and  one  by  the 
promenade. )  ' '  Are  you  in  Paris  for  any  length  of  time  ? " 
he  asked.  "  Paris  is  preposterous  this  year.  It  is  full  of 
young  men  who  come  here  from  some  northern  home 
and  imbibe  from  their  new  environment  everything  that 
is  extravagant  and  therefore  striking,  ephemeral  and  there- 
fore talked  of.  They  catch  the  taint  of  third-rate  French 
literature.  They  begin  to  look  like  the  '  Authors '  on  a 
novel  cover,  and  they  talk  like  a  bad  translation  of  the 
Goncourts !  They  become  the  solemn  incarnation  of 
Le  Petit  Journal  pour  rire.  They  think  Flaubert — that 
sweet  singer  of  artificial  emotions — the  greatest  of  the 
prophets.  They  are  always  wondering  why  they  were 
not  born  either  in  the  fifteenth  century  or  the  eighteenth 
century.  They  cannot  be  certain  whether  Dante  was  or 
was  not  a  great  poet.  Shakespeare  gives  them  the  head- 
ache. They  like  those  authors  best  who  had  euphonious 
names    and    who    have    left    but    few   works  !     In   other 


36  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

words,  mon  enfant,  they  are — fools.     But  they  will  amuse 
you — you  who  know  France  and  the  French  so  well  !  '* 

All  this  time  he  was  studying  Robert's  face. 

"Good  God  !  "  he  thought  to  himself,  "this  boy  will 
become  famous.  I  must  not  lose  sight  of  him,  and  I 
must  give  him  some  advice." 

*'  When  are  you  going  to  Oxford .? "  he  asked  aloud. 

"At  the  end  of  this  year." 

"It  won't  suit  you.  What  you  need  is  not  Plato  but 
Bacon.  Plato  would  play  the  devil  with  you.  You  arc 
a  visionary  as  it  is.  You  must  go  to  Cambridge  and 
read  the  Kozmm  Organum.  Bacon  is  a  man's  philosopher. 
Plato  is  for  demigods  and  criminals.  Heavens  !  how 
you  resemble  your  father  in  profile  !  It  was  my  good 
forttme  to  be  present  when  he  preached  his  last  sermon 
in  London.  It  was  a  month  before  he  startled  the  whole 
Order  of  St.  Dominic  by — by  marrying  your  entrancing 
mother.  His  brilliant  eyes  and  clear,  white  face  !  He 
looked  like  a  Holbein — Holbein  did  manage  to  see  one 
or  two  handsome  fellow-creatures.  I  stared  at  your 
father  and  thought,  'That  man  is  meditating  some 
terrific  step  ! '  I  was  but  twenty  at  the  time,  and  it 
shows  me  that  I  was  a  judge  of  character  even  then. 
I  shall  never  forget  his  extraordinary  neatness — such  a 
dazzling  white  surplice  !  such  beautiful,  nervous  hands  ' 
.  .  .  Surely  these  things  do  not  pain  you.'  Why  should 
they  ? " 

"They  do,  nevertheless,"  said  Robert, 

'Cher  enfant,  faithful  are  the  wounds  of  a  friend.  I 
spoke  for  your  good.  It  was  a  test.  Do  not  pamper  a 
thin  skin.  I  could  swear  that  you  were  destined  for  an 
uncommon  career.  You  will  make  a  hit — but — for  God's 
sake  and  your  own,  conquer  this  feminine  sensitiveness. 
When  you  were  last  here,  I  often  thought  you  were  mad. 
But  you  were  never  silly.     Now,   many   boys  are  silly, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  37 

though  few  indeed  attain  the  grandeur  of  madness.  To 
be  seriously  mad  is  a  fine  thing  ;  it  shows  that  the  gods 
have  had  somewhat  to  say  to  you.  This  morbid  reluc- 
tance to  hear  the  truth  and  to  face  life  is,  however,  both 
silly  and  weak.  Vou  are  a  strong,  vigorous  lad.  Don't 
shoot  tame  canaries  and  think  you  are  a  sportsman. 
That  was  the  fault  in  charming,  absurd,  consumptive 
Keats.  Now  come  and  see  me  to-morrow.  I  am  spend- 
ing a  few  days  at  the  Embassy,  and  I  can  present  you  to 
some  valuable  acquaintances.  I  also  wish  to  give  you 
somethin<r  for  vour  god-mother.  A7<  revoir.  1  have  to 
lake  supper  with  Henriette  Duboc. " 

"  Do  you  know  Madame  Duboc  .'  "  asked  Robert,  with 
burning  cheeks. 

"Yes,"  answered  Parflete,  with  a  grin,  "I  am  her 
philosopher-in-waiting  !  We  sup  to-night  en  petit  coniite 
— the  Archduke  Charles,  the  Comte  de  Brie,  Lord  Reek- 
age,  Henriette  and  myself.  It  is  the  birthday  of  Brigit — 
la  petite  Brigittc  ■'  " 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"The  daughter  of  Duboc  and  the  Archduke  Charles. 
She  is  six  years  old,  and  she  begins  to  recite  her  cate- 
chism. They  christened  her  Brigit  because  Duboc's 
mother  was  that  lovely  Irishwoman,  Bridget  O'Malley, 
who  eloped  with — but  I  shall  never  stop  if  I  once  begin 
//lo/ tale  of  woe.  An  re^mr  i\^?aw.  Come  to-morrow.  Ati 
revoir  !  " 

And,  waving  his  hand,  he  hurried  away. 

For  a  moment  Robert  could  but  hang  his  head  and 
think  how  dull,  clumsy  and  ineffective  he  was  in  com- 
parison with  that  brilliant,  if  unpleasant,  personage. 
Henriette,  no  doubt,  found  him  an  agreeable  companion. 
Perhaps  he  was  her  most  intimate  friend.  Perhaps  she 
would  amuse  her  guests  at  supper  by  telling  them  of  the 
little  stupid  peasant  who  walked  from  Brittany  to  Paris  in 


*i^>k<L>i.4: 


38  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

the  hope  of  saving  her  soul — a  soul  which  all  the  world 
knew  and  jeered  at.  And  Parflete  would  grin  and  twist 
the  story  into  a  good  anecdote  for  his  journal.  In  the 
mortification  of  this  thought,  the  lad's  face  grew  scarlet. 
He  longed  to  escape  into  some  desolate  place  where  there 
were  neither  men  nor  women,  where  there  was  no  one — 
no  one  save  God,  Who  understood  everything  and  never 
laughed.  His  feeling  for  Henriette  turned  to  hatred,'  and 
back  again  to  love.  Why  should  a  last  painful  impres- 
sion blot  out  his  remembrance  of  that  one  perfect  day  at 
Miraflores  ? 

"Alas!"  he  told  himself,  "she  knows  too  well  how 
deeply  I  love  her.  Yet  is  that  a  reason  why  she  should 
deceive  me  and  despise  me?" 

He  dashed  away  the  tears  which  sprang  up  to  his 
eyes,  but  as  he  wandered  out  into  the  street,  he  saw 
nothing  before  him  except  Henriette's  face  and  her  fare- 
well glance — ironical,  wondering  and  compassionate. 
He  had  not  been  unprepared  for  that  news  of  the  Arch- 
duke Charles.  He  knew  that  there  was  a  man  ;  his 
name  and  rank  mattered  but  little.  The  real  blow  came 
from  little  Brigit,  aged  six,  who  was  learning  her  cate- 
chism !  A  child  always  brings  a  hallowing  influence. 
The  repulsive  picture  of  Madame  Duboc  and  her  train  of 
lovers  gave  place  to  the  softer  view  of  a  very  young 
mother  and  a  little  girl — a  little  girl  like  herself,  with 
flaxen  hair  and  violet  eyes.  This  did  not  cure  him  of  his 
infatuation,  but  it  took  another  hue.  It  became  chastened. 
It  gained  in  philosophy  w'hat  it  lost  in  romance.  Humor 
took  up  the  place  of  sentiment.  He  was  able  to  smile  at 
himself,  and,  before  he  reached  the  little  hotel  in  the 
Avenue  Carnot,  where  Madame  Bertin  would,  did  she 
write  at  all,  address  his  letters,  he  lost  the  rather  oppress- 
ive feeling  that  Henriette  was  his  fate,  his  destiny  by  the 
unalterable  fiat  of  the  gods  !     He  had  made  a  mistake. 


THE  SCHOOT.  FOR  SAINTS.  39 

Clearly  she  was  the  fate  of  Wrexham  Parfiete's  frieiid,  that 
Archduke  Charles.  The  discovery  was  at  first  humiliat- 
ing— although  he  remembered  that  young  Romeo,  too,  had 
loved  a  Rosalind  before  he  died  for  Juliet.  The  ideal  he  had 
set  before  himself  for  accomplishment  was  that  of  fidelity 
to  one  Lord,  one  purpose  and  one  woman.  Some  natures 
attain  the  condition  of  religious  faith  only  after  many  and 
harassing  years  of  moral  experiments ;  others,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  born  with  so  clear  a  sense  of  the  divine 
Omnipresence  that  they  doubt  more  readily  the  evidences 
of  sight,  than  their  instinctive  knowledge  of  the  invisible 
God.  It  does  not  invariably  follow  that  beings  endowed 
with  this  spiritual  perception  are  outwardly  holier,  or  in- 
wardly more  pure  than  those  less  favored.  The  men 
who  have  seen,  in  rare  moments  of  inspiration,  the  vision 
of  the  Eternal,  have  not  had  fewer  temptations,  nor  have 
they  sinned  less  deeply — less  wilfully — than  their  blinder 
brothers. 

Robert,  in  his  early  boyhood,  had  been  as  inquisitive 
after  evil,  as  undisciplined  in  mind  as  any  other  lad,  but 
his  heart  had  been  quick  to  respond  to  great  ideas.  He 
liked  to  think  of  himself  as  the  player  of  a  noble  part. 
He  thought  the  thoughts  of  his  favorite  heroes,  acted  as 
he  supposed  they  would  have  acted  had  they  been  born 
in  his  circumstances,  and,  by  degrees,  the  habit,  due  in 
the  first  place  to  vanity,  passed  into  that  higher  realm, 
the  imagination,  and  from  thence  into  his  soul.  He  be- 
came, in  reality,  that  youth  he  had  by  artifice  once 
merely  seemed  to  be.  Amadis  in  the  romance  was  not 
more  brave,  more  faithful,  or  more  determined  than  the 
provincial  Robert,  who  had  walked  two  hundred  miles 
to  tell  the  woman  he  loved  that  she  was  unworthy. 


40  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  hotel  in  the  Avenue  Carnot  was  a  house  in  a  square 
block  of  large  white  buildings.  Robert  was  given  a  small 
room  on  the  fifth  floor  which  overlooked  the  courtyard, 
where,  in  the  ce»-re  of  some  laurel  bushes,  a  fountain 
played. 

He  undressed  by  the  light  of  the  stars,  and,  overcome 
by  the  fatigue  and  excitement  of  the  day,  soon  fell  asleep, 
and  had  no  further  dreams  till  he  awoke  ne.xt  morning. 

He  rose  early,  and  commenced  a  long  letter  to  his  god- 
mother. The  sentiment  v.'hich  existed  between  Madame 
Bertin  and  himself  was  of  too  formal  a  nature  to  have 
been  particularly  warm.  She  had  always  seemed  to  him 
a  woman  who  exacted — not  merely  from  himself,  but 
from  the  whole  world — every  outward  mark  of  considera- 
tion, and,  by  exaggerating  the  visible  courtesies  he 
sought  to  delude  himself  into  the  belief  that  he  really 
loved  her.  Perhaps  he  succeeded.  Certainly  he  never 
permitted  himself  to  examine  the  bond  which  seemed  to 
unite  their  two  lives.  If  it  was  slight,  he  preferred  to  re- 
main in  ignorance  of  its  actual  fragility.  She  was  clever, 
and  when  he  was  in  correspondence  with  her,  he  found 
it  easy  to  express  his  thoughts  in  an  intimate  strain. 
There  was  something  manlike  in  her  nature,  which, 
though  it  forbade  any  display  of  tenderness,  kept  her 
sympathies  free  from  the  taint  of  curiosity,  and  her  advice, 
from  the  feminine  stiiig  of  reproach.  And  she  was  never 
jealous.  When  Robert  wrote  to  his  god-mother  (and  he 
sent  her  a  letter  every  day),  he  seemed  to  be  sending;  a 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  41 

message  from  one  solitude  to  another.  Each  led  an  inde- 
pendent and  isolated  existence.  The  woman  lived  in  the 
past,  the  boy  in  his  dreams  ;  but  her  sphere  was  peopled 
with  the  dead,  whereas  Robert's  held  those  brilliant,  airy 
creatures  of  the  fancy  who  cannot  die  because  they  never 
come  to  life. 

In  the  news  he  now  wrote,  he  made  no  reference  to 
Henriette  Duboc,  but  he  dwelt  at  some  length  on  the 
meeting  with  Parfiete,  for  whom  Madame  Bertin  had 
always  felt  an  inexplicable  regard.  She  had  an  old  silver 
box  containing  a  small  packet  of  that  gentleman's  letters 
— letters  which  she  declared  to  be  so  brilliant  that  they 
might  have  been  written  by  Swift.  In  these  circum- 
stances, Robert  felt  that,  since  Parfiete  had  been  careful 
to  say  that  he  had  something  for  Madame  Bertin,  it  was 
impossible  to  avoid  a  call  at  the  Embassy. 

Her  Britannic  Majesty's  ambassador  was,  at  that  time, 
Lord  Locrine — a  peer  who  was  pre-eminent  in  his  gener- 
ation for  an  enchanting  manner  and  remarkable  literary 
gifts.  While  he  was  never  known  to  fail  in  his  diplo- 
matic duties,  his  house  was  a  rendezvous,  not  for  distin- 
guished foreigners  only,  but  for  such  of  his  own  compa- 
triots who  had  either  brains  or  charm  to  recommend  them. 
He  delighted  the  capricious  French  republic,  while  he 
represented  the  best  traditions  of  the  English  monarchy. 
To  snobs  he  was  a  prince,  and  a  haughty  one ;  but  to 
men  he  was  a  man  and  a  scholar.  Not  every  visitor 
who  crossed  his  threshold  was  either  a  genius  or  a  noble. 
Not  every  woman  whom  he  took  into  dinner  was  either 
a  beauty,  a  wit,  or  the  incarnation  of  a  pedigree  ;  but  the 
people  who  were  welcome  at  the  British  Embassy  dur- 
ing his  term  of  office  were,  for  the  most  part,  intelligent 
or  amusing,  and  often  both.  His  Excellency  had  once 
been  heard  to  remark  that,  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
varied  career  he  had  met  one  grande  dame,  two  geniuses, 


42  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

four  fools,    several   thousand   very    clever   persons,    and 
hundreds  who  were,  at  least,  absurd. 

At  the  moment  of  Robert's  visit,  the  house-party  was 
smaller  than  usual.  In  addition  to  Parflete,  there  were 
two  male  visitors  only,  Lady  Locrine's  nephews — sons 
of  the  Earl  of  Almouth  ; — Lord  Reckage  and  his  twin- 
brother,  Hercy  Berenville,  who  was  a  cripple.  Lady 
Locrine's  own  son  was  an  undergraduate  at  Oxford.  Her 
daughter  Amy,  however,  was  just  nineteen,  and  enjoy- 
ing her  first  season  at  Paris.* 

"  Parflete  took  me  into  the  drawing-room,"  we  read  in  Robert's 
letter  to  his  god-mother,  "  and  I  lost  my  dread  of  a  formal  inter- 
view with  the  Locrines  when  I  saw  a  very  handsome  woman 
seated  at  a  piano,  an  inoffensive  youth  looking  over  her  shoulder, 
and  another  youth,  with  a  crutch,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor  delivering  an  harangue  on  Greek  music. 

"  *  The  Greeks,'  he  was  saying,  '  regarded  music  as  a  natural 
expression  of  sentiment;  they  wrote  airs  and  simple  themes. 
They  did  not  show  their  skill  in  counterpoint  and  ornamenta- 
tion.' When  he  caught  siglit  of  Parflete  and  myself,  he  blushed, 
and  made  me  feel  quite  happy  by  saying  that  he  was  '  boring 
every  one  with  his  usual  rot  ! ' 

"  Lady  Locrine  wore  a  gray  silk  (I  noticed  this  at  once  on 
your  account),  and  a  few  fine  jewels.  Her  hair  is  white,  her 
eyes  are  black  and  piercing — not  unkind,  but  certainly  in  search 
of  truth.  She  was  most  civil,  and  she  has  one  of  those  agree- 
able fatigued  voices.  Poor  Hercy  Berenville  has  five  times  his 
brother's  brains,  but  unhappily  only  half  his  leg  !  I  hear  that 
he  was  born  so.  Parflete  tells  me  that  he  tried  two  terms  at 
Eton,  but  his  health  broke  down.  He  has  now  four  tutors  at 
home,  and  they  are  looking  for  a  companion  of  his  own  age  to 
work  with  him.  Reckage — his  twin-brother — is  an  odd  boy, 
whose  face  shows  a  pretty  even  mixture  of  cunning  and  sincer- 
ity. His  manner,  however,  is  perfect,  and  I  like  him,  in  spite 
of  myself,  rather  better  than  Hercy,  who,  by  a  strange  paradox, 
seems  a  strong  man  playing  the  part  of  an  invalid,  while  the 
other  seems  an  invalid  playing  the  part  of  a  blood  !  His  talk 
was   all  about  horses  and  dogs   and  pretty  women.     I   don't 

*  The  story  of  Amy  Locrine  has  been  written  by  Robert  Orange,  but 
the  work  may  not  yet  be  published  as  many  of  the  personages  involved 
in  it  are  still  living. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  43 

think  that  he  cares  much  about  either,  for  his  eyes  were  always 
wandering  to  Lady  Locrine's  book  table.  Hercy,  on  the  other 
hand,  fingered  a  curious  reprint  of  the  Fioretti,  prattled  about 
the  thirteenth  century,  and  sat  by  the  window  craning  his  neck 
to  see  every  petticoat  that  passed.  When  he  offered  any  re- 
mark to  his  brother  on  the  subject  of  horseflesh,  it  was  always 
an  original,  unexpected  observation  which  showed  knowledge 
as  opposed  to  Reckage's  jargon  —  taken  second-hand  from 
trainers,  who,  ol  course,  have  all  the  caution  of  the  vulgar 
mind  where  trade  secrets  are  in  question.  I  never  heard  a 
trainer  or  a  coachman  tell  the  truth  about  a  horse. 

"  Lord  Locrine  was  not  visible,  but  when  I  said  good-bye, 
Lady  Locrine  asked  me  to  breakfast  with  them  to-morrow. 
Parflete  came  out  with  me  into  the  hall  and  called  me  into  an 
ante-room,  where  he  told  me  all  I  know,  at  present,  about 
Reckage  and  Hercy  Berenville. 

"'You  have  made  a  good  impression,' said  he.  'Your  fate 
is  now  in  your  own  hands.  It  fortune  should  fail  you,  it  would 
be  a  calamity,  but  never  let  it  be  said  that>'<?«  have  failed 
fortune,  for  that  would  be  an  irretrievable  dishonor.' 

"  He  spoke  solemnly,  and  I  could  not  have  believed  that  he 
was  capable  of  so  much  feeling.  I  had  always  regarded  him 
as  a  cross  between  a  learned  pig  and  a  performing  poodle.  For 
the  moment  I  liked  him— perhaps  because  I  felt  sorry  for  him. 
He  has  just  enough  soul  to  be  damned,  and  just  enough  heart 
to  suffer  under  damnation.  .   .  . 

"  I  have  just  returned  from  my  breakfast  at  the  Embassy. 
Lord  Locrine  is  handsome  in  a  curling  way — his  hair  and  his 
beard,  his  eyelashes,  his  nostrils  and  his  moustache  all  curl. 
Once  I  nearly  addressed  him  as  Hyperion.  His  talk  was  equally 
elegant  and  decorative.  Each  phrase  he  used  was  either/r/j-,?, 
or  ondule,  and  all  were  parfiime.  He  has  the  knack  of  utter- 
ing literature  as  though  it  were  conversation.  The  gift,  too,  is 
clearly  natural ;  he  thinks,  I  should  say,  in  roundels.  It  is  a 
real  bird  ;  it  trills  because  it  must.  Lady  Locrine  is  the  best 
of  listeners,  and  she  has,  for  her  sex,  an  extraordinary  sense  of 
humor.  Her  laugh  is  hearty  and  unrestrained,  but  then  she 
looks  well  laughing.  Laughter  ruins  many  women.  Hercy 
Berenville  was  my  neighbor  at  table.  He  is  swarthy,  and  he 
might  be  an  Italian.  The  face  is  pointed  ;  the  eyes  are  almond- 
shaped,  very  large,  and  like  those  of  some  fine  sagacious  animal. 
He  puzzles  me  a  little,  and  yet  attracts  me.  .  .  .  I  seem  to 
have  lived  a  hundred  years  since  I  left  you.  I  enclose  a  letter 
which  I  have  just  received  from  Parflete.  They  have  given  me 
four  days  in  which  to  form  my  decision  upon  it." 


44  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

The  letter  in  question  contained  the  proposal  that 
Robert  should  accept  the  position  of  companion  to  Hercy 
Berenville,  at  a  salary  of  two  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
He  was  to  work  with  Hercy,  travel  with  Hercy,  read 
with  Hercy,  and,  in  a  word,  be  a  brother  to  Hercy. 
Hercy  Hved,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  at  his  moth- 
er's dower-house  in  Hampshire. 

"This,"  wrote  Parflete  at  the  conclusion  of  his  letter, 
'  •  is  the  great  opportunity  of  your  life. " 

Madame  Bertin,  on  receiving  Robert's  news,  telegraphed 
her  advice  from  Brittany  : — 

"  Madness  to  refuse." 

The  boy  himself  needed  no  persuasion  in  the  matter. 
He  accepted  the  situation,  and,  with  Hercy,  left  Paris 
for  England  early  in  the  following  week. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  45 


CHAPTER  V. 

Robert's  life  during  the  next  ten  years  seems  to  have 
been  marked  by  passions  of  the  mind  rather  than  passions 
of  the  heart.  He  had,  it  is  true,  a  few  love  adventures, 
but  they  were  sources  to  him  of  unhappiness  rather  than 
inspiration.  We  hear  that  both  Hercy  and  himself  be- 
came accomplished  scholars  ;  that  they  travelled  in  the 
East,  in  America  and  all  through  Europe ;  that  they 
became  citizens  of  the  world. 

The  one  person  to  whom  Robert  would  have  sent  con- 
fidential letters  in  all  that  time  was  Madame  Bertin,  and 
she,  to  his  sorrow,  died  before  he  had  spent  a  month  in 
his  altered  circumstances. 

He  composed  two  novels,  but  if  the  events  and  persons 
with  which  they  deal  bear  any  relation  to  his  own  im- 
mediate experience,  they  are  so  described  and  disguised 
that  it  is  impossible  to  regard  them  in  any  other  light 
than  that  of  pure  romance.  They  show,  however,  a 
knowledge  of  the  world  and  human  thought  as  unex- 
pected, yet  sound,  as  Hercy  Berenville's  remarks  on 
horseflesh.  There  is  one  passage,  however,  in  his  last 
novel — written  when  he  had  reached  the  highest  place  in 
political  life — which  he  is  said  to  have  admitted  to  a 
friend  was  pure  autobiography.  The  internal  evidence 
is  in  such  strong  favor  of  this  supposition,  that  it  may  be 
taken,  without  doubt,  as  an  accurate  analysis  of  his  mind 
during  his  first  years  in  England.  It  should  be  stated 
that  the  individual  of  whom  he  wrote  is  not  the  hero 
of  the  romance,  but  a  subordinate  character — a  certain- 
Michael  Crabbe. 


46  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"Michael  Crabbe,"  so  runs  the  extract,  "  had  spent  his  youth 
on  the  coast  of  Brittany,  where  dreams  take  their  substance 
from  the  great  rocks,  their  color  from  the  sky,  and  their  un- 
fathomable mystery  tVom  the  sea.  Paris — where  he  had  been  for 
a  certain  number  of  terms  at  school — was  to  him  a  city  of  books, 
by  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  ;  the  brilliant  streets,  the  public 
buildings,  the  life,  sparkle  and  gayety  of  France's  capital  were 
to  him  but  seemings,  appearances  and  nothings — while  he  could 
read  of  Ancient  Greece  and  Rome  in  the  masters  of  literature. 
In  winter  and  summer,  he  rose  at  five  in  the  morning  and  read 
tor  two  hours  before  the  household  or  his  schoolfellows  stirred. 
He  was  permitted  a  room  to  himself,  and,  in  dark  weather,  he 
studied  by  candle-light.  He  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  pocket- 
money  in  candles  and  second-hand  books.  When,  through 
interruptions  or  fatigue,  he  failed  to  work  twelve  hours  a  day, 
he  would  feel,  for  some  reason,  unfaithful,  and  he  always  made 
good,  by  additional  exertions,  the  lost  time.  What  a  change, 
then,  was  his  life  in  England  !  At  the  Earl  of  Illingdale's  man- 
sion on  Piccadilly — the  best,  the  greatest,  and  also  the  most 
foolish  society  in  London,  streamed  in  and  out  all  day  and  half 
the  night.  When  his  lordship  retired  to  his  country  seat,  the 
same  society  followed  him,  but  it  stayed  longer.  He  was  rich, 
hospitable,  inordinately  fond  of  hearing  gossip,  yet  an  adept  at 
minding  his  own  business.  He  lived  the  life  of  a  king  without 
responsibilities,  and  his  house  was  a  court  where  there  were 
neither  ceremonies,  penalties,  favorites,  nor  spies.  In  this 
rippling,  ever-widening  circle  of  acquaintances,  Crabbe  found  it 
difficult  to  maintain  his  moral  equilibrium.  He  has  found,  in  a 
measure,  the  realization  of  his  early  romantic  fancies  ;  he  was, 
indeed,  a  dependent,  but  he  shared  in  every  pleasure  and  privi- 
lege of  his  young  charge,  the  heir.  The  hours  spent  with  tutors, 
masters  of  modern  languages,  and  professors  of  art  and  music, 
were  snatched  from  the  serious  time  devoted  to  the  table,  the 
drawing-room,  the  stable  and  the  field.  In  his  love  for  animals 
and  out-door  life,  he  was  less  an  English  sportsman  than  a 
gypsy.  He  was  a  bold  rider  and  a  good  shot,  but  he  was  happier 
aiming  at  bulls'-eyes  than  birds.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was  a 
champion  of  duelling.  He  seemed  to  have  no  scruple  about 
killing  a  man  tor  a  just  cause  in  a  fair  fight,  and  he  took  pride 
in  his  reputation  as  a  fencer.  He  hated  fishing.  While  others 
fished,  he  wrote  poems,  or  put  the  gloves  on  with  Captain  De- 
bright — one  of  the  Earl's  private  secretaries — a  great  boxer  in 
his  day. 

"  From  all  this  it  will  be  seen  that  the  earnest  student  had 
become  transformed  into  the  courtier.     He  engaged  in  several 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  47 

love-affairs,  and  he  was  a  dandy  in  his  dress.  His  tailor's  bill 
was  long,  and  his  salary  was  barely  sufficient  for  his  bootmaker, 
his  hatter,  and  his  shirts.  He  thought  of  entering  the  army. 
He  read  all  he  could  find  about  Sir  Philip  Sydney  and  Lord 
Essex.  Then  he  studied  Beethoven,  and  wished  to  be  a  great 
composer.  He  was  supposed  to  play  the  violin  with  skill  and 
feeling.  He  read  deeply  in  German  metaphysic,  Russian 
politics,  English  art,  Gothic  architecture  and  the  Fathers  of 
the  Church.  There  was  no  limit  to  his  interests  and  aspirations. 
He  wanted  to  be  rich,  powerful  and  distinguished.  He  sighed 
for  some  princess  who  would  love  him  for  his  devotion  and 
exploits.  If  he  thought  himself  a  fine,  handsome,  devil  of  a 
fellow — the  woman  were  a  little  to  blame.  They  told  him  so, 
and  he  swallowed  it  all — for  a  time,  at  all  events.  He  soon 
learnt  to  put  more  trust  in  his  mirror.  There  were  periods 
when  he  became  bitter  at  the  comparison  of  his  own  poverty 
and  few  advantages  with  the  wealth  and  favors  lavished  upon 
his  associates.  The  thought  that,  even  with  the  highest  intel- 
lectual gifts,  he  could  but  hope  to  end  his  life  at  the  social  point 
froni  which  they — even  as  fools  and  incompetent — started,  filled 
him  with  something — remote,  indeed,  from  jealousy,  but  very 
near  despair.  •  Poor  men,'  thought  he,  '  who  succeed  in  public 
life,  are  called,  at  best,  adventurers  !  It  was  not  so  in  the  age 
of  chivalry.  The  kingdom  of  Art  is  now  the  one  realm  where 
might  makes  the  king.'  But  his  health  was  too  sound  to  sup- 
port, for  any  length  of  time,  such  enervating  moods.  His  am- 
bition soon  centred  itself  on  a  more  permanent  object  than 
fashionable  popularity.  The  phase  of  uncertainty  and  worldli- 
ness  lasted  about  eighteen  months.  After  that  he  passed — in 
the  natural  course — through  the  three  common  stages  of  mental 
growth  : — 

"  First : — The  fanatic  love  of  poetry  and  a  contempt  for  hu- 
man beings. 

"Second: — The  love  of  Nature  :  a  desire  for  solitude  :  the- 
oretic sympathy  with  mankind  in  the  past, — the  heroes  and 
heroines  of  history. 

"  Third : — The  love  of  humanity  :  a  pleasure  in  Nature  :  a 
right  understanding  of  poetry  :  a  firm  faith  in  God's  wisdom 
and  a  fierce  desire  to  take  a  manly  part  in  the  drama  of  life. 

"  In  time  he  earned  enough  money  by  his  pen  to  pay  his  debts, 
but  it  was  a  slow  and  chastening  business.  It  cost  him  the  good 
looks  for  which  he  had  once  taken,  perhaps,  too  much  thought." 

It  should  be  remembered,  in  reading  the  foregoing  ex- 
tract, that  Orange,  at  middle-age,  was  looking  back  upon 


48  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

himself  as  a  young  man  between  eighteen  and  eight-and- 
twenty.  He  was  not  one  to  spare  his  own  weaknesses, 
and  the  general  tone  of  the  composition  will  be  found  to 
be,  at  all  ])oints,  ironical.  In  the  Memoirs  of  Hercy 
Berenville,  we  tind  Orange  described  as  being,  at  the  age 
of  thirty,  '"extraordinarily  handsome,  with  a  fine,  erect 
figure,  and  easy,  though  undemonstrative,  manners. 
When  he  chose  to  exert  himself,  few  people  could  resist 
his  influence.  His  words  were  often  severe,  but  his  per- 
sonal magnetism  was  such  that  it  seemed  to  attract  every 
order  of  mind,  and  what  he  said,  though  never  so  sharply, 
mattered  little.  For  general  accomplishments,  for  quick- 
ness of  intellect  and  depth  of  knowledge  he  stood  out 
among  the  crowd  of  remarkable  men  who,  in  those  days, 
were  constant  visitors  at  my  father's  house.  It  was  felt 
that  Robert  Orange  was  cut  out  for  a  distinguished  liter- 
ary career, — that  he  would  be  a  second  Gibbon." 

In  all  such  estimates  some  allowance  must,  of  course, 
be  made  for  the  prejudices  of  affection,  yet,  while  Robert 
did  not  become  "a  second  Gibbon,  "'his  life  could  not  have 
been  a  disappointment  to  the  friends  who  first  believed  in 
his  ability. 

After  the  publication  of  his  second  book,  Basil  Letnaitre, 
which  dealt  in  brilliant  style  with  the  adventures  of  a 
voung  politician,  Robert  was  offered  the  post  of  secretary 
t(^  Reckage,  who  was  attempting  to  draw  public  attention 
toward  himself  by  making  ^\•itty  speeches  in  the  House  of 
Conmions. 

That  Robert's  own  ambition  should  have  soared  intcj 
nu>re  dramatic  scenes  than  the  lonely  path  of  literature 
seems  not  to  have  occurred  to  his  friends.  In  tlie  cor- 
respondence of  Lord  Reckage  we  find  the  greatest  aston- 
ishment expressed  when  '"Orange,  a  most  able,  learned, 
but  ascetic  fellow,"  offered  himself  as  a  candidate  to  the 
electors  of  Xorbet  Royal, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  49 

Hercy,  on  the  other  hand,  writes  to  Lady  Locnne  : — 

"  I  have  been  expecting  this  for  some  time.  It  is  the  misfor- 
tune of  Robert's  life  that  he  is  not  an  ecclesiastic.  In  the 
Roman  Church  he  would  find  full  scope,  both  for  his  political 
talents  and  his  deeply  religious  mind.  He  will  succeed  in  Par- 
liament because  he  has  a  clear  head  and  the  gift  of  seeming — 
when  necessary — an  untravelled  Saxon,  You  would  often  sup- 
pose that  he  shared  our  foolish  national  belief  that  the  average 
Briton's  point  of  view  is  the  observatory  of  the  entire  human 
race — that  London  is  the  Greenwich  of  the  Universe  ;  and,  that 
the  average  Londoner  is  the  average  man — whether  Hottentot 
or  Brahmin.  This  power  of  contraction  would  of  itself  com- 
mand an  overwhelming  majority  of  votes.  In  any  other  man 
of  equal  genius  and  experience,  I  should  call  that  power  by  a 
harder  name — insincerity.  With  Robert,  however,  it  is  the 
Apostolic  gift  of  sympathy — "  He  is  all  things  to  all  men  that 
he  may,  by  any  means,  save  some."  I  have  never  met  so 
patient  and  tranquil  a  soul.  When  the  time  comes  for  him  to 
enter  the  arena  of  public  life,  it  will  be  a  case  of  fighting  with 
the  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus.  His  real  happiness  and  his  tastes 
are  for  meditation,  for  retirement,  for  a  cloistered  activity." 

It  is  now  known  that  there  was  a  deeper  cause  for 
Robert's  sudden  resolution  than  was  imagined  even  by  the 
two  men  who  were,  in  all  but  parentage,  his  brothers. 
He  had  fallen  in  love. 

In  the  May  prior  to  his  campaign  at  Norbet  Royal 
(which  took  place  in  the  summer),  he  had  accompanied 
Hercy  and  a  small  party  of  friends  on  an  expedition  to 
Touraine.  They  made  Chambord  their  headquarters,  and 
stayed  at  the  inn  in  the  magnificent  park  surrounding  the 
chateau.  The  journal,  to  which  we  are  indebted  for  this 
minute  description  of  the  Villa  Miraflores  and  his  first 
meeting  with  Henriette  Duboc,  contains  no  word  of  the 
finest  palace  in  France,  and  but  a  few  lines  of  reference 
to  a  moment — perhaps  the  vital  moment  of  his  career. 

It  contains  these  three  entries  : — 

Chambord,  May  18 — I  hope  to  remain  here  for  many  months. 
May  19. — To-day  I  was  ascending  the  famous  double  staircase 
4 


50  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

in  the  castle,  when,  hearing  voices  which  reminded  me  most 
painfully  of  my  boyhood,  I  looked  up,  and  saw  Wrexham  Par- 
flete  with  a  lady.  I  thought  it  was  Henriette  Duboc.  She  is 
Parflete's  wife  ;  they  are  on  their  honeymoon  ;  she  is  only  six- 
teen, and  she  is  poor  Henriette's  daughter.  She  is  more  beau- 
tiful than  her  mother. 

May  20. — The  Parfletes  lunched  with  us.  I  have  told  Hercy 
that  I  must  go  on  to  Paris  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I  feel  rest- 
less. 

After   this  there  is  a  break  of  several   weeks,  and  the 

Parfletes  are  not   mentioned  again  in    his  diary  of  that 

•year.      He  wrote,  however,  a  letter  to  Lord  Reckage  on 

his  arrival  on  25th  May  at  Paris,  and  this  contained  the 

following  passage  : 

"I  find  it  impossible  to  like  Parflete,  and  this  marriage  with 
a  child  (who  left  her  convent  school  on  her  wedding-day)  but 
increases  my  antipathy.  I  know  that  I  owe  him  much.  I  know, 
too,  that  you  and  Hercy  have  real  affection  for  him.  To  me  he 
is  frankly  intolerable,  even  as  an  acquaintance.  He  asked  after 
you  with  the  deepest  interest,  and  added  that,  'as  for  himself — 
he  had  but  one  griet,  his  futile  resemblance  to  all  the  portraits 
of  Horace  Walpole  !  '  This,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is  true.  It  is 
extraordinary.  He  then  went  on  to  say  that,  '  Macaulay  never 
understood  Walpole.  Poor  Walpole's  good  spirits  were  as 
forced  as  Gray's  melancholy.  Gray  was  by  nature  cheerful  ; 
that  was  why  he  composed  an  elegy.  Walpole  was  sad,  so  he 
wrote  the  wittiest  letters  in  our  language.  Walpole  was  to  his 
(Parflete's)  mind  the  greater  man  of  the  two.  But  the  Saxons 
always  distrusted  wit.  It  offended  their  moral  pomposity,  etc.  , 
etc'  All  this  time  his  bride  was  waiting  for  him,  and  he  had  not 
so  much  as  presented  us  to  her.  Hercy  and  I  both  remained, 
by  a  common  instinct,  with  our  heads  uncovered  ;  there  was 
something  in  the  child's  whole  bearing  which  seemed  to  demand 
unusual  signs  of  respect  and  deference.  It  was  a  shock  to  both 
of  us  when  he  said,  with  a  revolting  smirk,  '  This  is  my  wife.' 
He  told  Hercy  later  on,  while  I  was  showing  Mrs  Parflete  the 
room  in  which  Moli^re  gave  Le  Bourgeois  Gejitilhomme,  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Henriette  Duboc  and  the  Archduke 
Charles.  You  must  have  seen  her,  la  petite  Brigitte.  After  the 
Archduke's  marriage  and  Henriette's  death,  Brigit  was  sent  to  a 
convent  at  Tours.  Parflete,  by  her  mother's  will,  w-as  appointed 
sole    guardian.     The     Archduke,    to     use  Parflete's  villainous 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  51 

phrase,  'behaved  well,"  and  a  handsome  dot  was  settled  on 
the  child.  I  absolve  Parflete  from  mercenary  motives  in  the 
matter.  His  own  iortune  (though  much  impaired  by  gambling) 
is  still  considerable.  But  the  child's  astonishing  beauty  on  the 
one  hand,  and  his  servile  devotion  to  the  Archduke  on  the  other, 
explain  tiie  whole  intrigue.  It  can  but  end  m  disaster.  The 
child,  for  the  moment,  is  amused  by  her  deliverance  from  school, 
and  seems  to  regard  Parflete  in  a  purely  fraternal  light.  The 
relationship  is  extraordinary.  I  cannot  call  him  an  attentive 
husband.  He  is,  however,  good-natured  in  those  rare  mo- 
ments when  he  can  forget  himself.  .  .  .  His  position  at  the 
Court  is  now  established.  He  has  been  appointed  Equerry  to 
the  Archduke.  My  plans  are  unsettled.  Hercy  joins  me  to- 
morrow. I  am  spleeny,  savage  and  useless.  I  am  not  on 
friendly  terms  with  myself.  I  have  twenty  unread  books  in  my 
room,  all  of  which  I  have  bought  because  I  could  not  live  an- 
other day  without  them  !  There  they  are,  with  dancing  letters, 
and  I  wish  them  all  back  at  the  bookseller's.  I  went  to  the 
Louvre,  and  I  nearly  composed  a  poem.  Such  stuff!  I  gazed 
long  and  blindly  at  the  Samothracian  Victory.  Once  it  would 
have  thrilled  me  with  emotions  of  joy  and  hope  ;  but  now  it 
mocks  me.  I  am  thinking  much  of  your  speech  at  Nottingham. 
Your  head  is  all  right,  so  don't  be  afraid  of  showing  your  heart. 
Davenport's  resignation  has  left  you  a  splendid  opening.  Speak 
out,  and  don't  worry  about  oratory.  Demosthenes  nowadays 
would  be  called  an  actor.  The  Lords  would  complain  of  his 
vulgarity,  the  Commons  of  his  superiority,  and  the  journalists 
of  his  perseverance.  Your  style  is  unaffected,  and  it  you  can 
just  manage  to  conceal  your  knowledge  of  French  literature, 
they  will  find  you  a  true  patriot  !  Politicians  are  now  of  three 
kinds — the  sugary,  the  soapy  and  the  feathery.  The  first  cover 
their  vile  opinions  with  sweetness  ;  the  second  affect  to  keep 
other  people's  opinions  clean  ;  the  third  make  their  opinions  so 
light  of  wing  that  they  can  fly  away  at  a  moment's  warning,  1 
would  have  you  like  none  of  these,  dear  Beau.* 
"  More  of  this  to-morrow. 

'•  Yours,  R.  O." 

When  Berenville  arrived  in  Paris,  two  days  after  the 
despatch  of  the  foregoing,  he  was  accompanied  by  the 
Parfletes. 

"Why  have  they  come  }  "  asked  Robert,  in  great  irrita- 

*  Lord  Reckage's  nickname  was  an  abbreviation  of  Beauclerk. 


52  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

tion.  "  Has  that  man  no  delicacy  of  feeling  .-  He  is  on 
his  honeymoon  and  if  he  does  not  find  us  de  trop,  he 
ought !  If  Parflete  will  not  leave  us,  we  must  leave  Par- 
flete.     The  situation  is  impossible. " 

"He  is  all  right."  said  Hercy,  '•  and  as  for  me.  I  am 
thankful  to  see  that  he  is  not  uxorious.  I  couldn't  stand 
it.  You  must  remember  that  he  is  a  married  bachelor. 
Besides,  you  needn't  talk  to  him.  Talk  to  Mrs.  She's 
refreshing. " 

Hercy  was  taking  his  usual  rest  on  the  sofa  while 
Orange  was  pacing  the  floor.  The  invalid  fixed  his  eyes 
on  his  former  tutor's  broad  shoulders  and  fine  figure,  then 
he  hurled  his  own  crutch  across  the  room. 

"I  tell  you,"  continued  Robert,  "the  whole  thing  is  un- 
seemly. When  we  are  present,  Parflete  talks  incessantly 
about  himself  and  pays  no  attention  to  his  wife. " 

"  He  was  never  a  carpet-knight." 

"Aristotle,"  observed  Robert,  "has  remarked  in  his 
politics,  that  the  warlike  nations  are  those  who  pay  the 
highest  regard  to  women.  And  this,  he  suggests,  may 
have  given  rise  to  the  fable  of  the  love  of  Mars  and 
Venus  } 

"  Mars  was  not  a  highly-educated  person.  His  blood 
was  red.  and  he  did  not  know  that  the  liver  was  the  seat 
of  our  heart-felt  emotions  I  I  will  bet  you  anything  that 
Mars  was  a  god  of  no  ideas.  Education  gives  a  man 
ideas." 

"  But  love  alone  can  give  true  vitality,"  said  Robert. 
"With  ideas  and  vitality  there  is  little  that  men  cannot 
achieve.  Parflete.  however,  is  something  not  more  but 
less  than  a  man  .' '" 

"We  must  make  the  best  of  him  now.  I  have  asked 
them  to  dinner,  and  afterwards  we  are  going  to  Les  Pa- 
pillons. " 

"  You  will  take  her  to  Zes  Papillons  ?  " 


THE  SCHOOT.  FOR  SAINTS.  53 

"Why  not?  Her  mother  made  the  fame  of  the  place. 
She  must  know  all  about  her  mother.  I  know  what  this 
means.  You  have  been  reading  one  of  those  footling  old 
Fathers  !  As  Parflete  said  the  other  day — he  is  most 
generous  where  you  are  concerned — as  Parflete  said, 
'Orange  has  real  learning  and  great  abilities,  but  he  is  a 
Platonist.'  " 

' '  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Robert,  grimh% 

"  A  devilish  hard  fellow  to  live  with  !  " 

Robert  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"And  how  would  Parflete  describe  himself.'"  he 
asked. 

"I  have  often  heard  him  admit  that  he  has  been  his 
own  enemy." 

"  If  a  man  is  evil  to  himself  to  whom  is  he  good?  "said 
Robert  at  once. 

"  He  is  a  very  decent,  amusing  fellow.  He  gave  up  a 
great  deal  to  marry  the  relation  of  a  great  man.  But  he 
can't  talk  all  day  about  samplers,  and  the  bon  Dieu  and 
the  Blessed  Lady  ;  and,  at  present,  that  is  Mrs.  P. 's  great 
line.  You  are  a  scholar  yourself.  How  should  you 
amuse  a  wife  of  sixteen  who  cannot  understand  the  least 
of  your  thoughts?  I  don't  know  what  you  would  have 
done  in  Parflete's  circumstances,  but  I  can  guess  !  " 

"  Parflete  ought  never  to  have  married  ;  but  marriage, 
when  a  crime,  is  a  crime  which  it  is  criminal  to  repent  of." 

"He  doesn't  repent — he  merely  drinks  a  little  more 
cognac  than  usual.'' 

"You  grant  that ?  And  what  makes  this  man  pecul- 
iarly detestable  is  the  fact  that  he  knows  better.  His 
early  training  left  nothing  to  be  desired.  He  who  has 
once  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  to  him  it  is  not  permitted 
to  look  back  !  " 

"We  live  in  the  kingdom  of  men,"  muttered  Hercy, 
whose   mother  had  been  a  pious  woman  of  Evangelical 


54  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

principles.  What  would  she  have  thought  of  Parflete, 
and  his  little  suppers  and  his  philosophy.?  "We  live  in 
the  kingdom  of  men,"  he  murmured  again.  "  Parflete  is 
a  good-natured  ass,  and,  after  all,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
him,  I  should  never  have  knownjyou." 

"  I  do  not  forget  that  ;  yet,  w^hen  he  was  kind  enough 
to  present  me  to  your  aunt,  I  went  to  the  Embassy  not 
for  myself,  but  to  call,  at  his  request,  for  a  present  which 
he  had  for  Madame  Bertin.  The  present  turned  out  to  be 
a  letter  asking  for  a  large  loan.  She  lent  it  and  it  was 
never  repaid.  I  found  the  letter  among  her  papers 
after  her  death.  That  account  therefore  stands  square, 
I  have  never  mentioned  this  before.  But  you  force  the 
truth  from  me.  Parflete  had  the  money  which  would 
have  gone  for  my  expenses  at  the  University  and  for  my 
income  now.  The  money,  it  seems,  was  my  own,  and 
settled  upon  me  by  my  father.  Madame  Bertin  was  the 
trustee  only.  No  doubt  she  was  under  the  impression 
that  she  vi^as  acting  in  every  way  to  my  advantage." 

Hercy's  face  had  undergone  many  changes  during  the 
speech.  It  was  not  in  his  nature  to  own  himself  either 
astonished  or  in  the  wrong.  But  he  was  conscious  of  a 
deep  disgust  for  Parflete  and  his  methods.  He  made  up 
his  mind  to  cut  that  gentleman  forever — though,  in  per- 
forming that  act  he  would  take  time  and  study  his  own 
convenience.  He  would  have  a  little  more  fun  with  Mrs. 
Parflete,  a  few  more  games  of  cards,  another  dinner  or 
two.  He  would  hear  all  Parflete's  news  and  capital  stories 
then,  wish  him  farewell.     That  would  be  the  way. 

"  It  is  not  in  my  power,"  said  Robert,  after  a  long  pause, 
"  to  protect  the  child  he  has  married." 

"  But,"  suggested  Hercy,  "  you  can  do  the  civil  thing. 
I  had  rather  hear  her  little  story  of  the  pigeon,  who  was 
an  orphan  and  a  widow,  than  any  conversation  between 
the  allied  wits  of  Europe." 


TlIK  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  55 

"Yet  you  were  pitying  Parfiete  !  " 

"  I  understand  him.  He  is  wretched  just  because  he 
cannot  be  happy  with  that  divinely  pretty  creature.  His 
position  must  be  hellish.  Every  man  congratulates  him. 
envies  him  and  prods  him — morally,  at  all  events — in  the 
ribs  !  Wherever  he  goes  he  is  pointed  out  as  the  old  cox- 
comb with  the  enchanting  young  wife.  It  is  enough  to 
give  him  la  colique  de  Miserere  !  When  he  quotes  poetry 
to  her,  I  could  howl !  " 

"Madame  Bertin  had  a  pet  toad  which  she  kept  in  a 
glass  cage  and  fed  on  butterflies, "  said  Robert.  ' '  Parflete 
reminds  me  of  that  delicate  reptile.  I  tell  you  I  hate  him, 
and  I  don't  see  why  I  should  like  him.  I  think  he  must 
be  a  diseased  doll.  Do  I  want  him  to  run  after  his  wife 
with  Provencal  roses  on  his  shoe  and  a  guitar  slung  over 
his  shoulders  .'  Do  I  ask  him  to  ape  the  boyish  devotion 
of  Daphnis  to  Chloe  .^  But  his  attitudes,  and  his  epigrams, 
and  his  curling  little  fingers — the  wretched  homunculus  ! 
As  for  the  lady — she  cannot  like  him — although  virtuous 
women  are  incomprehensible  in  their  tastes.  They  will 
cling  to  men  whom  the  good  Samaritan  would  scarcely 
touch  with  the  tongs.  But,  all  other  considerations  apart, 
if  you  have  the  heart  to  dine  and  laugh  with  a  doomed 
creature — knowing  her  to  be  doomed — I  have  not.  To 
me  it  is  sacrilege.  I  may  not  help  her.  And  to  look  on, 
an  idle,  curious  witness, — I  cannot  do  it!  " 

"  I  haven't  got  your  uncomfortable  gift  of  prophecy  !  " 
said  Hercy. 

"You  have  just  exactly  that  which  I  have,''  rejoined 
Robert,  "a  knowledge  of  life  and  human  nature.  But 
Parflete  amuses  you,  and  so  you  deliberately  blind  your 
eyes  to  a  character  which,  in  your  soul,  you  must  despise. " 

"Oh,  do  come  off!  "  said  Hercy,  feeling  himself  cor- 
rectly explained  and  becoming,  in  consequence,  both 
angry  and  depressed.      "  I  never  went  in  for  minute  self- 


56  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

analysis  and  all  these  scruples  of  conscience.  Fellows 
don't.  For  priests  and  rum  chaps  it  may  be  normal 
enough.  My  health  wouldn't  stand  it.  But  if  I  began  it 
— this  hand-to-the-plough  business — 1  should  be  an  awful 
hypocrite,  and  if  I  dropped  it,  after  I  began  it,  I  should 
feel  a  coward,  so  I  jolly  well  leave  it  alone  !  " 

"  I  would  thou  wer/  cold  or  hot,"  said  Robert,  "so  be- 
cause thou  art  lukewarm,  I  will  spue  thee  out  of  my  mouth." 

"This  is  too  much,''  exclaimed  Hercy  ;  "you  are  furi- 
ous about  some  imaginary  falling-off  or  declension  or 
some  such  drivel  which  you  think  you  have  discovered 
in  yourself  and  so  you  are  pitching  into  me  !  It's  a  great 
shame  !  That  is  the  whole  trouble.  You  badger  and 
scourge  yourself  into  a  delirium  and  then  you  fly  out  like 
a  lion  at  Reckage  or  myself.  Reckage  and  I  both  know 
it.     We  have  noticed  it  again  and  again." 

Hercy's  countenance  showed  a  very  cunning  expres- 
sion, and  Orange  had  to  endure  the  mortifying  reflection 
that  he  had  been  studied  and  summed  up  by  these  two 
contemporaries  who  had  always  seemed  to  him  mere  lads, 
and,  as  it  were,  his  pupils.  He  felt  by  so  many  years  the 
senior  of  both.  He  soon  forgot  the  momentary  prick  to  his 
pride,  however,  in  the  thought  that  Hercy  had  probably 
hit  upon  the  truth.  Certainly  he  had  been  much  cast 
down  by  his  self-communings  while  alone  in  Paris  and 
after  he  had  torn  himself  away  from  Chambord.  He 
started  now  at  the  phrase  torn  hwisel/ which  now  rose 
spontaneously  in  his  mind  as  he  thought  of  the  sudden 
departure  from  his  friends  and  the  fixed  plans  of  many  a 
week.  He  had  abandoned  Hercy,  he  had  abandoned  his 
work,  an  historical  treatise  ;  he  had  fled  like  a  thief  in  the 
night  from  a  scene  that  was  fair  and  a  day  that  was 
glorious.  And  the  reasons  which  he  gave  to  himself  for 
his  conduct  were  these — a  dislike  of  Wrexham  Parflete 
and  a  quarrel  with  Hercy.     Some  things  must  not  be 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  57 

admitted  even  in  the  hidden  sanctuary  of  the  heart.  To 
own  them  is  to  grant  them  a  kind  of  existence.  They 
may  indeed  be  killed,  but  then  a  ghost  will  remain.  So 
Robert  could  still  say  that  these  reasons  held  good  ;  they 
were  strong  enough  to  stand  alone.  It  was  not  neces- 
sary to  probe  deeper  into  his  feelings. 

"I  say,"  said  Hercy,  not  caring  for  the  stern  silence 
which  had  followed  his  last  remark,  "the  Bfiau  and  I 
always  know  that  you  are  a  brick,  and  as  good"  as  a  saint 
and  all  that." 

"Don't  talk  like  some  managing  woman  !  " 

Hercy  began  to  sulk. 

"Then  you  won't  dine  with  us  to-night.?"  said  he, 
pretending  to  feel  a  twinge  in  his  weak  limb. 

"Certainly  not.  I  wonder  that  you  can  repeat  the 
question." 

"What  is  to  become  of  me  ?  I  can't  fight  my  way 
through  crowds  !  and  Parfiete  must  look  after  his  wife." 

"This  is  most  ungenerous,"  said  Robert,  with  a  dark 
flush;  "you  know  that  I  have  never  left  you  alone  to 
struggle  through  a  crowd,  or  anywhere  else.  Aumerle 
was  with  you  at  Chambord.  He  promised  me  never 
to  leave  you.  No  one  could  be  more  thoughtful  than 
Charles  Aumerle." 

"I  hate  being  shunted  off  on  to  good-natured  other 
people's  people  1  It  makes  me  feel  a  perfect  nuisance. 
I  often  suspect  that  I  am  a  bore  as  it  is ;  but,  to  be  so 
placed  that  I  must  knoiv  it  for  a  dead  certainty,  is  the 
thing  plus  fori  que  nioi.^' 

The  corners  of  Hercy's  sensitive  mouth  began  to  droop, 
and  his  voice  had  the  plaintive  accent  which  never  failed 
to  wring  the  heart  of  women  and  strong  men. 

Robert  owned  a  long  experience  of  this  manoeuvre, 
but,  nevertheless,  he  had  to  swallow  something  before 
he  could  be  sure  of  his  own  firmness.     He  recognized 


58  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

now,  one  overlooked  motive  in  the  rather  tangled  string 
of  circumstances  which  had  led  to  his  leaving  Chambord. 
He  had  striven  to  sever  all  connection  between  Hercy 
and  the  Parfletes.  Poor  Berenville,  as  all  invalids,  took 
violent  and  capricious  fancies  for  new  acquaintances,  or 
even  for  old  acquaintances  under  new  conditions  ;  yet, 
as  all  invalids,  also,  he  wanted  to  be  quite  sure  that  one 
particular  friend  was  always  in  the  background  to  soothe 
him  when  the  new-comers  proved  unsympathetic,  or  to 
help  him  away  when  their  society  palled.  Robert  knew 
that  he  could  effect  his  purpose  only  by  his  own  with- 
drawal from  the  field.  Hercy  would  follow  him  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth,  but  so  long  as  Robert  remained  in 
sight,  no  matter  how  vexed  in  spirit  and  severe  of  mien, 
his  charge  would  amuse  himself  by  over-drinking,  over- 
smoking and  gambling  with  Parflete  or  any  other  person 
whom  he  found  for  the  moment  to  be  entertaining. 

Most  of  us  know  what  an  intense  feeling  of  relief  it 
brings  to  find  that  our  motives,  for  a  certain  course  of 
action,  were  not  wholly  egoistic.  Selfishness,  in  a  case 
of  physical  danger,  is,  without  doubt,  an  ignominious 
weakness ;  but  when  there  be  spiritual  danger,  it  takes 
another  complexion  and  becomes  a  duty.  Robert  had 
fled  from  a  situation  which  he  found  destructive  to  his 
own  ideas  of  honor.  It  had  been  a  question  of  instinct — 
not  close  reasoning.  He  had  not  permitted  himself  the 
enervating  and  sinful  luxury  of  examining  the  transient 
emotions  which  passed  like  clouds  over  his  soul.  They 
were  but  the  signs  of  a  storm.  He  received  them  as  such, 
and,  without  further  wondering,  sought  to  escape  from 
the  threatened  calamity.  That,  in  itself,  was  a  sufficient 
reason  for  his  conduct  ;  but  he  had  found  another  reason, 
too — consideration  for  Hercy.  He  had  acted  on  the 
principle  of  the  two  boys  at  play,  one  of  whom,  finding 
that  his  comrade  was  rushing  toward  a  precipice  and  deaf 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  59 

to  all  entreaties  to  return,  immediately  took  to  his  heels 
and  darted  off  as  though  in  pursuit  of  some  enticing  ob- 
ject, whereupon,  the  lad  by  the  precipice  turned  too  and 
ran  after  him,  determined  to  see  what  thing  it  was  that 
had  proved  more  interesting  than  his  own  audacity. 

"  Where  you  are  concerned,  Hercy,"  said  Robert 
quietly,  "  I  have  no  self-reproaches.  I  left  you  with 
Aumerle.  I  would  leave  you  with  him  at  any  time,  or 
I  would  even  leave  you  alone  if  I  found,  as  I  found  at 
Chambord,  that  you  neither  valued  my  advice  nor  listened 
to  my  just  objections  to  late  hours,  gambling  and  brandy 
swilling.  1  was  your  friend  then  and  1  am  your  friend 
still,  unless  you  go  on  in  this  way  and  make  it  impossible 
for  me  to  remain  one.  You  knew  1  did  not  Ifke  your 
manner  at  Chambord,  therefore,  why  do  you  keep  it  up, 
unless  you  wish  me  to  be  your  friend  no  longer.'  I  am 
neither  your  servant  nor  your  dependent.  We  are  equals, 
I  have  nothing  to  gain  from  you  ;  you  have  nothing  to 
gain  from  me.  No,  you  must  either  treat  me  with  con- 
fidence or  break  with  me  altogether.  There  must  be 
some  common  ground  on  which  we  can  stand.  We  must 
agree  that  certain  things  are  right,  and  certain  things  are 
wrong,  otherwise,  all  is  over  between  us.  The  vicious, 
self-indulgent  life  which  commends  itself  to  Parflete,  is, 
to  my  mind,  scandalous.  If  you,  on  the  other  hand, 
think  it  a  fine  thing  for  a  man  to  lose  his  own  soul  and 
corrupt  others  by  his  example,  all  that  is  left  to  be  said  is 
this — it  is  a  parting  of  the  ways.  I  must  go  my  way — 
you,  yours.  Now  you  know  my  mind  on  the  matter.  It 
is  a  parting  of  the  ways." 

He  had  spoken  simply  and  with  great  earnestness.  To 
Hercy  he  had  never  before  seemed  so  resolute  a  character  ; 
he  had  never  seemed  so  determined  to  himself.  There  is 
perhaps  no  strength  so  great  and  abiding  as  that  which 
follows   from   a  resisted    temptation.     Every    dangerous 


6o  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

allurement  is  like  an  enchanted  monster,  which,  being 
conquered,  loses  all  his  venom  and  changes  at  once  into 
a  king  of  great  treasure,  eager  to  make  requital.  Robert 
felt  a  self-trust,  an  exaltation  of  mind  which  seemed  able 
to  defy  all  the  powers  of  darkness. 

"  What  with  men  not  daring  to  venture  upon  marriage 
and  what  with  men  wearied  out  of  it,"  muttered  Hercy, 
"  I  begin  to  think  that  St.  Paul  did  wrong  to  spare  us  his 
full  information  on  the  point  !  " 

"  This  is  a  parting  of  the  ways,"  repeated  Robert  for 
the  third  time. 

He  heard  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in  !  "  said  Berenville. 

^*  was  Parflete's  young  wife. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  6i 


CHAPTER  VI. 

She  entered  the  sitting-room  with  a  reluctant  air,  and 
blushing  deeply,  rather  from  vexation  than  shyness,  held 
out  toward  Hercy  a  three-cornered  note  as  though  that 
gesture  would  justify,  far  quicker  than  words,  an  in- 
trusion evidently  made  against  her  own  judgment. 

"Mr.  Parflete  told  me  to  bring  you  this,"  she  said  in 
French,  as  she  walked  up  to  the  invalid's  sofa.  "I 
believe  there  is  an  answer." 

She  bowed  to  Orange,  who  looked  pale.  He  offered 
her  a  chair  which  she  declined,  and  as  they  both  stood 
silent  while  Hercy  read  the  note — which  was  rather  long 
and  seemed  to  require  much  consideration — Robert  stole 
a  glance  at  her  face  and  figure.  Her  resemblance  to 
Madame  Duboc  was  such  as  one  might  suppose  the 
purified  spirit  bears  to  its  earthly  body.  She  was  the  same 
creature  yet  all  changed.  Brigit  was  tall  and  slight.  She 
was  a  real  blonde,  with  that  soft,  flaxen  hair,  which  never 
grows  to  a  great  length  or  in  heavy  masses,  and  which  is 
too  fine  to  bear  the  weight  of  pins.  Mrs.  Parflete  con- 
fined hers  very  simply,  and  regardless  of  the  fashion,  in  a 
jeweled  net.  She  kept  to  that  mode  all  her  life.  Her 
eyes  were  blue,  unfathomably  deep,  and  her  features  had 
an  irregularity  which,  while  it  destroyed  her  claim  to  any 
classic  beauty,  gave  her  a  most  uncommon  and  distin- 
guished appearance.  Although  Robert  had  in  his  mind 
compared  her  to  a  spirit  she  was  neither  ethereal  nor 
ascetic.  She  was  obviously  human  enough  and  with  a 
heart  as  passionate  as  her  mother's.     Henriette  Duboc, 


62  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

when  all  the  worst  was  said  and  thought  and  known,  had 
died  of  grief  in  the  Villa  Miraflores,  while  the  Archduke 
Charles  and  his  bride  were  sailing  in  the  Imperial  yacht 
straight  past  her  windows.  Robert  w^ondered  whether 
the  child  knew  aught  of  that  story.  For  she  was  a  child 
— a  child  in  face  which  was  younger  than  any  poetic  con- 
ception of  youthfulness,  and  a  child  in  figure — clad  as  it 
was  in  a  pensionnaire's  frock  of  white  lawn  made  and 
embroidered  by  the  nuns  in  the  Convent  at  Tours. 

She  remained  there  motionless,  wnth  one  beautiful,  un- 
gloved hand  resting  on  the  chair  she  had  refused,  looking 
down  to  the  noisy  Rue  de  Rivoli  beneath  the  hotel 
window.  Robert  seized  the  opportunity  to  give  Beren- 
ville,  who  \ras  extraordinarily  sensitive  over  such  atten- 
tions, his  crutch.  But  the  cripple  was  in  a  mood  not  un- 
usual with  him,  which  was  just  redeemed  from  vindictive- 
ness  by  a  certain  elvish  love  of  mischief  for  its  own 
sake. 

"  Where  is  Parflete .'' "  he  said,  turning  to  Brigit. 

"  He  is  in  the  courtyard  smoking,"  she  replied. 

Hercy  threw  Robert  a  defiant  glance,  sprang  from  the 
sofa — as  he  could  when  he  was  sure  of  his  prop — and  in 
two  jumps  was  out  of  the  room.  Brigit  and  Robert  were 
thus  left  alone. 

"He  frightens  me,"  said  Brigit.  "Where  has  he 
gone?  What  am  I  to  tell  Mr.  Parflete?  He  told  me  to 
wait  for  an  answer.      He  has  not  given  one. " 

"Pray  sit  down,"  said  Robert.  "  He  is  very  tired  after 
his  long  journey,  and  he  is  not  himself  to-day. " 

"Do  you  think,''  she  said,  "I  should  have  time  to 
fetch  my  book  ?     Mr. Parflete  has  given  me  Kenilworth.''' 

"  Hercy  might  return  at  any  moment,"  replied  Rob- 
ert, smiling;  "but,  in  the  mean  time — have  you  seen 
this  ? " 

He  gave  her  a  small  volume   which  was    one  of  the 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  63 

neglected  twenty  that  he  had  bought  in  the  fever  of 
mental  unrest  from  which  he  had  suffered  on  his  arrival 
in  Paris.  It  was  a  French  version  of  Browning's  Men  and 
Women,  a  curious  work,  which,  however,  had  not  wholly 
missed  the  spirit  of  the  original. 

"Ah!"  cried  Brigit,    "that   is  M.   Robert  Browning." 
She  gave  the  name  a  French  pronunciation.      "One  of 
our  nuns  who  knew  English  gave  a  lecture  about   him, 
but    the  Mother  Superior  said   he   was    too   difficult.     I 
wrote  a  composition  on  his  works." 

"  Had  you  read  them  ? "  he  asked  in  astonishment. 

"  Mais  non  !  But  I  had  the  notes  from  Sister  Winifred's 
lecture.  She  called  him  a  great  genius  but  with  no  sense 
of  form.  Wasn't  that  right  ?  I  said  the  same  and  so  they 
gave  me  the  first  prize.     I  was  very  pleased." 

"  Your  life  at  the  Convent  must  have  been  happy  ?  " 

"  Ah  yes !  because  I  knew  I  should  not  be  there 
always." 

"  Then  you  would  not  care  to  be  a  nun  yourself? " 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  Brigit,  with  dancing  eyes.  ' '  I  wanted 
to  be  married  as  mamma  was.  Did  you  ever  see  mamma .? 
I  remember  her  quite  well.  She  had  such  beautiful  dresses 
and  so  many  friends.  They  all  brought  me  presents  and 
bonbons  until  she  grew  ill.  Then,  of  course  they  stayed 
away  because  she  could  not  see  them.  But  she  used  to 
lie  on  a  sofa  all  day  telHng  me  fairy  stories.  And  they 
always  ended  this  way.  '  She  married  the  brave  prince 
and  lived  happy  ever  after.'  When  that  part  came  I  knew 
it  was  time  to  clap  my  hands.  She  used  to  say,  '  Louder, 
louder,  clap  louder  !  II  faut  avoir  de  l' esprit.'  Oh  !  I  can 
hear  her  now  !  " 

So  could  Robert.  She  had  inherited  every  note  of  her 
mother's  bewitching  voice  and  he  looked  away. 

"  What  else  .?  "  he  asked,  clearing  his  throat. 

"  Mr.  Parflete  was  very  kind  to  mamma,"  said  Brigit 


64  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  He  was  with  her  when  she  died.  She  had  her  couch 
wheeled  to  the  window  because  she  wanted  to  see  the 
Imperial  yacht  sail  past.  The  Archduke  Charles  and  his 
Duchess  were  on  board,  and  mamma  said  to  me,  'Can 
you  see  him  ?  Does  he  look  happy? '  I  knew  him  well, 
because  when  we  were  all  in  Paris,  and  mamma  was 
strong,  he  used  to  call  often  and  bring  me  dolls,  but  I 
could  not  see  him  that  day  because  the  boat  was  too  far 
away.  And  when  the  boat  sailed  out  of  sight  mamma 
said  she  believed  that  she  would  go  to  Spain  for  the 
winter  because  she  wanted  more  sun.  That  is  all  I 
remember.  Mr.  Parflete  sent  me  to  bed,  and  when  I  saw 
mamma  again  she  was  in  her  coffin,  and  there  were  two 
nuns  watching  over  her  and  they  told  me  to  kiss  her 
good-bye.  I  cried  very  much,  but  the  next  day  they  took 
me  away  to  the  Convent,  and  they  soon  taught  me  not 
to  cry  for  any  one  so  happy  as  poor  mamma.  But  although 
she  was  happy,  they  always  said  her  name  in  the  prayers 
for  the  faithful  departed.  I  want  to  live  longer  than  she 
lived.  She  must  have  forgotten  the  world  by  this  time. 
I  should  like  to  be  here  long  enough  to  think  of  it  all 
when  I  am  in  Paradise.  I  love  the  world.  It  is  so  gay 
and  so  beautiful  and  every  one  is  so  kind,  and  there  are  so 
many  things  to  see." 

Brigit  found  it  most  easy  and  pleasant  to  pour  out  her 
little  confidences  to  this  handsome  grim  young  man,  who 
had  a  dark  beard  and  looked  like  some  one  between  a 
king  and  a  monk — Charles  I.  for  instance  and  St  Bernard. 
She  wondered  whether  he  loved  any  woman  or  had  ever 
loved  one.     He  seemed  so  sad,  grave  and  meditative. 

"  Were  you  married  at  the  Convent.-'"  asked  Robert, 
abruptly. 

He  thought  it  a  necessary  discipline  to  remind  himself 
often,  and  without  paraphrase,  that  this  young  girl  was 
Parfiete's  wife. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS  65 

"  I  was  married  in  our  chapel,  "answered  Brigit.  "The 
nuns  made  my  gown  ;  the  Mother  Superior  herself  pinned 
on  my  veil  and  gathered  the  flowers  for  my  wreath.  She 
laughed  and  told  me  that  she  had  never  dressed  an  earthly 
bride  before.  But  she  cried  at  the  wedding,  and,  when  I 
went  away  she  said,  '  Be  very  silent,  trust  greatly  in  the 
Sacred  Heart  and  not  much  in  anything  below  It;  least 
of  all  in  friends,  when  the  sun  goes  in  they  change  color, 
but  the  Sacred  Heart  is  the  same  yesterday,  to-day  and 
forever.  May  every  blessing  be  with  you  ! '  I  wrote  it 
all  down  afterwards  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  I  wear  it  as 
a  charm.     Here  it  is." 

She  unfastened  a  small  gold  chain  which  she  wore  round 
her  neck,  and  placed  it  with  its  pendent,  heart-shaped 
locket  in  Robert's  hands. 

"  Open  it,'  she  said,  "  and  read  it  for  yourself." 

The  lines  were  written  in  an  unformed  but  delicate 
hand  on  a  little  slip  of  pink  paper.  Brigit  looked  over 
his  shoulder  as  he  examined  it.  The  words  suddenly 
seemed  blurred,  and,  growing  pale,  Robert  returned  it  in 
silence.  He  was  thinking  of  that  day  at  Miraflores,  when 
Henriette  Duboc  gave  him  the  little  pearl  and  ruby 
trinket  which  meant  love  and  tears.  How  it  all  came 
back  !  The  cooing  of  the  doves  ;  the  little  green  lizard 
that  crawled  out  upon  the  stone  bench  where  Henriette 
had  been  sitting  ;  the  scent  of  the  pines  ;  the  cool  blue 
river  winding  out  toward  the  sea,  and  the  deep  inexpres- 
sible joy  which  had  first  roused  his  soul  to  the  sure  and 
certain  knowledge  of  its  own  immortality.  It  is  a  mental 
passion  only  which  can  kindle  such  enthusiasm  or  bear 
such  imperishable  memories.  After  the  lapse  often  years 
those  moments  spent  at  Miraflores  returned  to  Orange 
with  more  than  their  first  sweetness  and  none  of  that  last 
misery  which  had  made  them,  for  a  longtime,  a  torturing 
recollection. 
5 


66  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  Do  you  like  the  lines  so  much  ?"  asked  Brigit,  whose 
feminine  instinct  told  her  that  he  was  profoundly  moved. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered.     "  I  like  them  very  much." 

"  Then  I  will  copy  them  for  you,"  she  exclaimed,  and 
ran  to  the  writing-table. 

That  copying  proved  a  great  affair.  A  new  pen  had  to 
be  found,  and  then  a  fresh  bottle  of  violet  ink  was  opened. 

Robert's  leather  portfolio  contained  no  letter  paper 
worthy  of  the  transcription.  At  last  he  decided  that  it 
.should  be  written  in  a  rare,  old  copy  of  Casaubon's 
Marcus  Aurelius  (1634),  which  he  had  discovered  by  a 
miracle  the  day  before. 

Brigit  shook  her  head.  Oh,  no,  she  could  not  dream 
of  writing  in  such  a  precious  book.  Alas  !  she  made  a 
blot  on  its  cover  as  she  spoke.  But  Robert  did  not  seem 
vexed — a  fact  which  to  the  bibliophile  will  tell  its  own 
story. 

So  the  words  were  eventually  copied  in  accordance  with 
his  wishes. 

"Be  very  silent.  Trust  greatly  in  the  Sacred  Heart  and 
not  much  in  anything  below  It ;  least  of  all  in  friends,  when 
the  sun  goes  in  they  change  color,  but  the  Sacred  Heart  is 
the  same  yesterday,  to-day  and  forever.  May  every  bless- 
ing be  with  you  !" 

"  You  have  not  signed  it,"  said  he. 

Perhaps  she  had  been  agitated  by  her  carelessness  in 
the  matter  of  the  blot — perhaps  she  was  fearful  lest  her 
signature  should  look  larger  than  Robert's  own  name  at 
the  top  of  the  page,  and  in  watching  to  compare  the  two, 
became  confused  in  her  ideas  ;  but,  for  one  of  these  rea- 
sons, or  for  some  unknowable  cause,  she  wrote  herself 
down  Brigit  Orange,  and  never  discovered  the  error. 

Robert  saw  it.     His  heart  was  beating  wildly.     He  said*- 
nothing  ;  he  hid  the  volume  at  once.'    It  seemed  as  though 
it  held  a  leaf  from  the  secret  books  of  Fate. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  67 

"Mr.  Berenville  does  not  come  back,"  said  Brigit, 
moving  from  the  writing-table  and  walking  over  to  the 
window. 

Her  thoughts  were  flying  rapidly  in  girlish  fashion  from 
one  subject  to  another.  The  room  was  too  small  for  her 
roving  mind,  and  she  longed  to  be  out  in  the  busy  street 
where  she  could  see  all  the  shops  and  the  people  and  the 
gayety.  It  seemed  such  a  waste  of  time  to  stand  inactively 
behind  dull,  maroon  curtains  talking  of  convents  and 
wedding-days,  when  the  Spring  sun  was  in  a  kissing  mood 
and  every  one  was  driving  toward  the  Bois.  She  wanted 
to  walk  out,  and  she  wanted  to  look  at  new  hats.  Mr. 
Parflete  had  generously  promised  her  a  hat  from  Virot's. 
Why  did  he  wait  so  long  ? 

'•I  do  hope,"  said  Brigit,  with  a  mournful  glance,  "that 
nothing  will  interfere  with  our  plans  for  this  evening. 
We  are  going  to  Les  Papillons.  I  suppose  you  are  coming 
with  us  ? " 

"  No  ;  oh,  no  !  "  he  answered  with  such  haste  that  she 
felt  it  was  scarcely  gracious. 

"You  wonder  why  we  care  for  anything  so  foolish?  " 

"Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said.  "It  is  perfectly 
natural  that  you  should  like  places  of  amusement." 

"But,  nevertheless,  you  could  wish  that  I  showed 
wiser  taste  !  I  must  be  truthful.  I  long  for  this  evening. 
You  may  frown  at  me  but  I  cannot  be  a  hypocrite.  I 
love  the  theatre,  and  I  delight  in  everything  iowr^eozs." 

Her  eyes  sparkled  and  her  cheeks  flushed  from  the 
pleasure  of  teasing  this  severe  man  of  whom  her  husband 
and  Charles  Aumerle  and  Hercy  Berenville  certainly  stood 
in  awe.  She  was  not  afraid  !  She  should  say  what  she 
pleased  !  She  was  a  married  woman  and  had  a  perfect 
right  to — Mr.  Parflete's  opinions  !  The  truly  delightful 
thing  would  be  to  hold  this  jeune  homme  irh  extraordi- 
naire with  a  direct  look,   and  utter  such  defiant  senti- 


t;8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

merits  as  she  could — under  the  inspiration  of  Puck — in- 
vent. 

"I  see,"  said  Robert,  "that  you  are  the  pink  of  per- 
versity." 

"  Not  at  all!  My  first  desire  is  to  be  honest,  yet  it 
would  grieve  me  to  quarrel  with  you." 

"That  could  never  happen,"  he  said.  "1  agree  with 
all  you  say.  I,  too,  delight  in  the  stage.  I  have  wished 
that  theatre-going  were  a  moral  obligation,  for  then  we 
should  have  a  highly  critical  audience,  and,  as  a  conse- 
quence, good  plays." 

"Then  why  won't  you  come  with  us  this  evening?  " 

"  Have  you  never  heard  of  self-denial  ?  " 

This  was  more  than  he  had  intended  to  say.  Brigit's 
manner,  however,  seemed  to  him  maddening,  because 
she  was  flirting,  not  on  principle,  but  by  instinct.  He 
was  filled  with  a  blindingjealousy  of  the  possible,  average 
man,  who  might  have  been  standing  in  his  shoes,  and 
on  whom  she  would  have  smiled,  and  to  whom  she  would 
have  spoken,  and  at  whom  she  would  have  laughed,  just 
as  she  was  smiling  and  speaking  and  softly  laughing  now. 
It  was  no  tribute  to  himself,  nor  did  it  show  any  reprehen- 
sible weakness  in  Brigit.  She  was  no  angel — that  was 
all.  A  dangerous  conclusion  for  even  the  most  cautious 
of  mortals  to  arrive  at  when  an  argument  has  to  be 
demonstrated  from  premises. 

"I  have  some  work  to  finish,"  he  added  hastily. 
"Nothing  otherwise  would  give  me  greater  pleasure  than 
to  join  the  party.     I  hope  you  believe  that." 

Brigit  looked  long  and  thoughtfully  at  his  face. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said  at  length.  "  I  should  like  to 
believe  you,  but — " 

"My  word  is  not  to  be  doubted  I  " 

"You  might  wish  to  be  polite." 

"Politeness  is  no  man's  word;  it  is  everybody's  lie  ! 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  69 

That  is  why  I  have   a   habitual  contempt  for  courtesy. 
You  may  have  observed  this. " 

"I  think  it  is  a  pity/'  said  Brigit,  with  some  dryness. 

"  Then,  in  your  opinion,  I  am  brutal !  " 

"Very  difficult." 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  offended  you." 

"Then,  shake  hands." 

His  hand  was  cold — ice-cold.  She  exclaimed  in  mater- 
nal accents,  on  touching  it, — 

"  Are  we  friends  again  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Have  we  ever  been  enemies  ?  " 

"No,  but  you  puzzle  me.  I  think  you  want  to  be  kind, 
but  you  don't  understand  a  woman's  idea  of  kindness. 
To  speak  of  self-denial  is  a  reproach  ;  it  carries  an  ac- 
cusation. You  have  placed  my  conscience  in  an  unflat- 
tering light  ! '' 

"  How  have  you  discovered  these  things  .-*  "  said 
Robert,  at  once,  eager,  delighted  and  astonished  ;  "you, 
at  your  age  !  "' 

This  sudden  seriousness  in  a  character  which  had  been, 
till  that  moment,  remarkable  chiefly  for  its  unstudied  can- 
dor, seemed  to  add  to  Brigit's  already  sufficient  attrac- 
tions, the  enigmatic  fascination  of  the  Sphinx. 

"  Vanity  will  make  even  the  silliest  creature  occasion- 
ally thoughtful,"  said  Brigit,  with  a  saucy  air. 

Robert  had  never  been  so  situated  that  he  could 
observe  the  working  of  a  child's  mind,  nor  had  he  ever 
heard  the  profound  truths  which  children  utter  between 
the  shouts,  lamentations  and  laughs  of  play.  He  had 
studied  the  adolescent  and  men  and  women,  but  this 
experience  was  wholly  new  to  him.  For  the  first  time  the 
charm  of  childhood — its  trust,  its  transparent  guile,  its 
careless  wisdom,  its  pure  humanity,  uncultivated,  unre- 
strained and  unsuspecting — touched  his  heart,  which  was 
just  then  a  little  dry  and  weary  from  too  much  love  of 


70  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

books.  He  had  never  been  young  himself.  He  had  met 
responsibility"  at  the  very  threshold  of  life.  He  imagined 
himself — and  rightly — as  unlike  men  of  his  own  age  as  he 
had  been,  at  an  earlier  period,  unlike  other  children. 

He  could  not  remember  a  time  when — even  while  sur- 
rounded by  congenial  and  loved  companions — his  mind 
had  been  otherwise  than  lonely.  The  effect  of  Brigit  was 
overwhelming.  His  meeting  with  Henriette  Duboc  had 
opened  his  eyes  to  the  beauty  of  the  visible  world  and 
had  turned  his  unharmonized  senses  into  unison  with  the 
great  chords  of  Nature.  But  to  be  in  tune  is  not,  of 
necessity,  to  be  played  upon.  He  had  never  felt  what 
he  was  feeling  now.  Brigit  seemed  to  touch  every  note 
in  his  being  ;  there  was  not  a  longing  nor  a  fear,  not  a 
nerve  nor  a  sentiment,  not  a  hope  nor  a  despair,  not  a 
virtue  nor  a  failing,  but  responded  to  that  subduing  influ- 
ence. It  was  as  though  some  rare  musician  had  strayed 
into  a  forgotten  church  and  told  a  message  from  God 
upon  the  organ  keys.  All  that  was  deep  in  emotion,  all 
that  was  sublime  in  thought  seemed  to  meet  and  blend  in 
one  inspiring  strain.  Mortal  desire  and  the  insatiable 
more  subtle  needs  of  the  spirit  seemed,  not  two  opposing 
voices,  but  one  irresistible  voice  and  its  softer  aerial  echo. 
His  pulses  trembled  and  the  warning  spirit  within  him 
cried  out  in  weeping,  as  it  had  cried  before  to  a  poet- 
lover — Heu  miser  1  quia  freque7iter  impedilus  ero  deinceps. 
(Woe  is  me  !  for  that  often  I  shall  be  disturbed  from  this 
time  forth  !) 

The  room  in  which  Orange  stood  was  bare  and  dingy. 
Here  there  were  no  adventitious  snares  for  the  idealist's 
soul  or  the  dreamer's  imagination.  The  sensuous  delights 
of  blue  sky  and  green  land,  of  singing  birds  and  scented 
flowers  were  not  here  as  they  had  been  at  Miraflores, 
All  the  magic  was  in  that  slight,  young  figure  clad  in 
white,  in  that  animated  girlish  face  set  in  a  natural  glory 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  71 

of  bright  hair.  He  wondered — and  hated  himself  for 
wondering — whether  she  was  even  remotely  conscious  of 
her  power.  The  most  honorable  mind  will  often  encour- 
age itself  in  a  conscientious  insincerity.  Robert  still 
showed  a  stubborn  resistance  to  admit  that  the  mysterious 
exaltation  which  he  felt,  under  the  obscure  medium  of 
philosophic  thought,  was,  in  reality,  but  the  common  pro- 
cess known  as  falling  in  love.  He  would  have  recoiled 
as  violently  from  the  notion  as  the  phrase.  It  could  not 
be.  It  was  impossible.  He  could  have  knelt  at  Brigit's 
feet,  not  because  she  was  a  beautiful  young  woman,  but 
because  both  her  beauty  and  her  womanliness  had  so  little 
in  them  of  common  sexuality.  She  was  a  divmity  ;  and 
if  he  was  a  monster — a  wolf — was  that  her  fault  ?  Did 
that  prove  anything  one  way  or  the  other  ?  In  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  life,  he  was  sane  and  even  Homeric  in  his 
straightforward  views  of  the  laws  of  attraction,  but  in  the 
present  instance  his  accustomed  simplicity  was  lost  in  an 
irritating  poetic  vapor  which  hung  about  his  soul  just  as 
a  fog  will  enwrap  the  morning. 

The  lovely  minute  had  passed  ;  he  came  down  from 
the  earthly  heaven  into  which  he  had  been  caught  for  a 
brief  moment,  and  he  found  himself  thinking  in  dull 
words  of  plain  things.  He  had  a  longing  to  quarrel  with 
someone — with  everyone,  preferably  with  the  fair  young 
creature,  into  whose  company  he  had  been  driven  by  a 
relentless  fate  and  a  friend's  malice.  Once  he  had  been 
able  to  think,  on  the  whole,  rather  highly  of  convent 
schools.  He  now  considered  them  barbarous  forcing- 
grounds  where  perfect  wives  were  trained  for  the 
Wrexham  Parfletes.  He  had  observed  that  selfish,  coarse- 
minded  people  usually  married  well.  Men  of  the 
Parflete  type  found  angels,  and  shrewd,  vixenish  women 
entrapped  the  very  sons  of  God.  The  thought  was  sicken- 
ingf.    He  grew  more  and  more  peevish  at  the  general  mis- 


72  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

management  of  human  affairs,  and  even  became  enraged 
against  Biddy  herself  for  seeming  to  acquiesce  so  cheer- 
fully in  a  lot  so  unedifying.  And  yet  it  was  just  this 
sunny  health  of  mind  which  won  him  most.  He  ab- 
horred la/enime  incomprise — that  she-dragon  of  family 
life. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak?  "  asked  Brigit,  suddenly. 

"  Because,"  he  answered,   "  there  is  nothing  to  say  !  " 

Brigit  went  up  to  him,  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  and 
looked  up  into  his  face  with  the  kindest  eyes  he  had  ever 
seen  in  any  human  countenance. 

"  Are  you  in  trouble  ?  "  said  she,  gently. 

And  what  was  his  answer  "i  He  shrank  back  from  that 
light  touch  and  turned  away. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  said,  roughly,  "  but  it  is  my 
nature  to  be  brutish.  When  I  sink  into  meditation  I  am 
merely  seeking  whom  I  may  devour  !  Yes,  that  is  me — 
the  real  Me  !  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Brigit,  "that  is  not  you  at  all.  But  I 
know  that  you  are,  perhaps,  a  little  discontented.  You 
are  not  satisfied  with  your  life.  When  I  first  saw  you,  I 
asked  myself,  "  Que  diable  allait-il faire  da?is  cette  galere?  " 
You  don't  mind.''  .  .  .  May  I  go  on  .''  I  know  that  I  have 
no  right  to  speak ;  I  have  had  so  little  experience.  And 
yet,  while  you  have  been  out  in  the  world,  thinking  of 
many  things,  I  have  been  in  one  small  crowded  corner 
with  more  than  forty  other  girls,  and  I  have  been  in  daily 
intercourse  with  each  member  of  that  crowd.  How  could 
I  then — even  if  I  would — be  entirely  ignorant  of  human 
feelings  .?  Besides,  before  mamma  died  I  travelled  with 
her ;  we  crossed  the  Atlantic  twice.  We  went  to  London 
and  Berlin  quite  often  ;  all  my  memories  are  very  clear 
of  the  people  we  met  and  the  places  we  saw.  My  husband 
was  surprised  to  find  how  well  I  remembered  those  far- 
away times  and  journeys  and  conversations.     So  when  I 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  73 

saw  you,  I  thought  of  a  man  who,  mamma  used  to  say, 
was  a  disciple  without  a  master.  Now,  if  you  are  not  too 
angry,  may  I  say  that  I  think  that  is  your  trouble.-*  You 
have  zeal  and  you  have  courage,  and  you  have  loyalty 
and  you  have  devotion,  but  you  have  not  yet  been  called 
by  a  voice  you  can  believe  in  !  " 

Robert  held  his  breath.  How  clearly  she  had  divined 
a  state  of  mind  which  he  himself  had  been  unable  to  ex- 
plain except  as  a  dull  and  gnawing  ache. 

"In  what  sense  do  you  mean  that?"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Do  you  speak  of  a  divine  or  a  human  call?  The  Divine 
Voice  I  have  never  doubted,  but  I  have  often  wished  that 
I  could  hear  it  more  plainly.  When  it  pleads  from  the 
Roman  Church  I  am  deeply  moved  ;  I  am  not,  however, 
fully  persuaded  that  I  hear  aright.  When  it  threatens 
from  the  Protestant  pulpit,  I  am  more  nearly  persuaded, 
but  I  am  not  moved  in  the  least.  The  Protestants  insist 
on  the  virtues — you  must  assume  them  if  you  have  them 
not — the  Catholics  lay  more  stress  on  the  sacraments. 
Now  the  virtues  are,  after  all,  the  product  of  philosophy. 
Jewish  ethics,  under  the  old  dispensation,  were  barbarous 
when  we  compare  them  with  the  precepts  taught  by  the 
Pagan  moralists,  who  had,  nevertheless,  no  hope  and 
were  without  God  in  the  world  !  The  philosophic  mind 
is  not  told  by  the  Hebrew  prophets.  Passionate  invective  ; 
cries  for  vengeance  ;  lamentations  and  mourning  and 
woe  ;  threats  of  appalling  punishment ;  promises  of  earthly 
recompense  and  the  urging  forward  to  worldly  aims, 
crowns  and  dignities — humanity,  in  fact,  as  opposed  to 
spirituality,  is  the  great  strain  running  all  through  the 
godliness  taught  before  the  birth  of  Christ.  One  might  be 
perfectly  virtuous  in  every  human  relation  and  yet  possess 
an  irreligious  soul.  On  the  other  hand,  one  might  be 
absolutely  convinced  of  God's  revelation  of  Himself  and 
yet  sin  against  every  canon  of  right  conduct.     The  devil, 


74  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

for  instance,  must  have  a  sure  knowledge  of  God ;  his 
fault  was  treachery  not  disbelief.  This  thought  has  always 
made  me  feel  that  the  deepest  of  crimes  is  to  sin  against 
light  ;  it  has  also  helped  me  to  understand  why  your 
Church  is  so  much  more  severe  toward  pride  of  intellect 
than  against  the  natural  weaknesses  of  the  heart.  I  think 
it  conceivable  that  God  would  forgive  even  Satan,  if  he 
would  but  repent  and  love  Him.  Humanly  speaking,  so 
long  as  we  feel  that  we  are  really  loved  we  can  forgive 
much.  The  faults  of  those  who  love  us  are  more  accept- 
able than  the  virtues  of  those  who  treat  us  with  neglect. 
I  fully  comprehend,  therefore,  why  it  should  be  a  more 
vital  necessity  in  the  Christian  life  to  attend  mass  than  to 
keep  a  stoic's  temper.  Faith  in  God  does  not  in  itself 
alter  the  fundamental  characteristics  of  a  man's  disposi- 
tion. It  seems  to  me  unjust,  therefore,  to  call  any  per- 
son a  hypocrite  because,  while  in  creed  a  Christian,  he  is 
in  the  struggle  for  life,  greedy,  untruthful,  malicious  or 
worse.  Strive  for  the  calm  temper,  by  all  means,  if  you 
have  not  received  it — as  many  have  received  it  just  as 
some  are  blessed  with  good  health,  or  fine  possessions,  or 
a  serene  mind — but  never  suppose  that  natural  graces  of 
character,  or  acquired  stoicism  or  Platonism,  or  any  other 
ism  without  acts  of  devotion  to  God  will  avail  you  at  the 
judgment !  These  are  the  things  I  say  to  myself  con- 
stantly ;  I  try  hard  not  to  forget  them." 

"  Then,  v^hy  are  you  not  one  of  us  ?  "  asked  Brigit. 

"Because  my  sympathies  are  all  with  Rome,"  he  an- 
swered slowly  ;  "and  on  that  ground  I  mistrust  my  reason 
in  the  matter.  Sentiment  with  me  is  so  powerful  a  mo- 
tive that  I  have  to  regard  it  as  I  would  a  besetting  sin.  I 
dare  not  yield  to  any  thought  when  I  find  myself  attacked 
through  the  sentiments.  The  very  poetry  of  the  sacra- 
ments— if  I  may  so  speak — their  sway  over  the  intellect 
and  the  emotions   are,  to   me,  the  strongest  argument 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  75 

against  them.  I  cannot  allow  myself  to  think  that  cere- 
monies which  bring  such  a  glow  of  unspeakable,  inhuman 
happiness  can  be  intrinsically  right  or  pleasing  to  God. 
It  is  an  intoxication  of  the  soul.  .  .  .  The  capacity  for 
such  intense  feeling — whether  in  the  mental  or  the  sen- 
suous life — seems  to  me  a  thing  one  should  stifle — stifle 
and  forget.  ...  I  am  saying  too  much  about  myself; 
forgive  me ! " 

People  who  have  a  taste  for  accurate  scholarship,  often 
start  on  their  researches,  as  it  were,  in  quest  of  a  forgot- 
ten idiom,  and  they  return  enriched  with  a  new  language 
— if  not  a  new  world.  Robert  had  seemed,  quite  sud- 
denly, to  see  the  rest  points  towards  which  his  reflections 
and  reading,  for  many  months  now  had  been  directed.  He 
blushed,  however,  in  the  fear  that  he  had  been  speaking 
with  that  dogmatic  assurance  which  all  men  dislike  in 
each  other,  which,  nevertheless,  no  man,  who  is  in  earn- 
est, may  lack.  Strong  convictions  alone  can  lead  to 
strong  deeds,  and  a  man  who  is  timorous  in  uttering  an 
opinion  will  be  even  weaker  in  his  attempt  to  act  upon  it. 
Orange  was  too  young  and  over-austere  then  to  have 
practised  persuasiveness  as  an  art.  The  winning  quality 
was  his  by  nature,  and  he  classed  it  with  his  sentiments, 
among  wrong  things,  leading  to  vain-glory  and  flattery. 

The  struggles  of  an  ardent  nature  against  a  hard  and 
oppressive  habit  of  thought,  tell  outwardly  in  a  certain 
irony  of  speech  and  a  manner  which,  to  the  inconsiderate, 
appears  cold,  even  unfeeling.  It  requires  the  pure  eyes 
and  unstained  heart  of  a  young  unsophisticated  mind  to 
penetrate  through  the  depths  of  an  outward  appearance — 
to  reflect  the  hidden  kindness  under  an  icy  look,  firigit 
was  not  deceived  by  the  expression  which  Robert  had 
drawn,  as  a  veil  of  stone,  over  his  face, 

"Catholicism,"  he  said,  abruptly,  "has  beauty  that  we 
should  desire  it,  and  I  have  not  so  learned  Christ. " 


76  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"You  forget,"  said  Brigit,  "that  Christ  once  showed 
Himself  as  He  was.  Have  you  never  read  how,  one 
starry,  August  night,  He  went  up  on  to  the  holy  mount, 
with  the  apostles  He  loved  best,  and  was  transfigured 
before  them.  His  sorrowful  face  was  changed,  it  shone 
as  the  sun  ;  His  garments  became  white  as  snow,  and 
He  was  glorious  with  the  splendor  of  God.  Does  that 
not  mean  that  He  wanted  them  to  know,  that  in  wor- 
shipping the  spirit  of  truth  they  were  also  worshipping  the 
spirit  of  perfect  loveliness — perfect  and  ineffable  beauty  ?  " 

She  spoke  as  only  those  can  speak  with  whom  sacred 
thoughts  are  familiar  things,  to  be  declared  in  fearlessness 
and  simplicity. 

Robert  was  startled  by  what  seemed,  to  him,  a  new 
light  adroitly  cast  on  his  obscure  difficulties ;  but  he 
looked  straight  at  the  dingy  walls,  tightened  his  lips  and 
persuaded  himself  that  he  had  to  wrestle  with  another 
most  cruel  temptation,  namely,  the  force  of  a  personal 
influence  in  what  should  be  a  purely  religious  question. 
It  meant,  in  reality,  placing  faith  in  an  individual,  and, 
when  that  individual  fell  short  of  the  expectations  he 
raised,  and  who,  being  human,  can  be  otherwise  than 
disappointing  ? — one  lost  faith  in  his  doctrines — faith  in 
his  God.  He  prayed  to  be  delivered  from  any  moment- 
ary yielding  to  a  folly  so  passing  sweet  in  its  first  enthu- 
siasm— so  afflicting  in  its  last  reproach. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  said,  "but  no  one  can  help 
me  !  " 

"I  will  pray  for  your  intention,"  said  Brigit,  smiling; 
"  I  will  say  the  rosary  for  you  every  day.  That  is  much 
better  than  any  argument.  St.  Monica  prayed  for  her 
son,  St.  Augustine  ;  she  never  lectured  him,  and  that  is  a 
lesson  for  all  of  us.  But  you  remind  me  of  something  a 
Jesuit  Father  once  told  me.  I  asked  him  why  men  risked 
their  lives  to  find  the  North  Pole.     It  seemed  to  me  that 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  77 

the  land  there  would  be  useless  even  when  gained. 
"  By  no  means,"  said  he,  "for,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
North  Pole,  when  you  have  once  passed  through  the 
regions  of  ice  and  snow,  there  is  a  beautiful  country, 
warm  and  fair,  another  Italy  !  " 

"It  must  be  like  my  kingdom  under  the  sea,"  said 
Robert,  smiling,    "I  will  tell  you  about  it  some  day." 

Brigit  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  and  folding  her  hands, 
looked  up  at  him  with  an  expression  of  meek  wistfulness 
which  was  quite  unusual  on  her  brilliant,  mobile  face. 

"Tell  me  now,"  said  she.      "  Tell  me  everything." 

The  appeal  was  irresistible.  He  began  to  talk  about 
his  boyhood  in  Brittany,  about  Madame  Bertin,  about  his 
walks  on  the  ramparts  of  St.  Malo  and  the  old  lace- 
maker  whom  he  had  met  on  the  day  after  his  eighteenth 
birthday.  He  had  never  before  spoken  of  that  past  to 
any  ears. 

The  first  exchange  of  confidences  between  two  minds 
in  sympathy  makes  a  delightful  moment,  and  it  is,  more- 
over, a  moment  which,  in  various  degrees  of  delightful- 
ness,  may  be  repeated  so  often  as  one  finds  a  congenial 
companion.  But  things  can  be  told  for  the  first  time  once 
only.  That  experience  must  ever  be  unique.  The  sec- 
ond telling  renders  the  news  less  sacred  ;  at  each  repeti- 
tion it  loses  its  value  for  us.  Piece  by  piece  it  ceases  to 
be  ours,  and  finally  it  is  carried  away  into  the  great  dead 
sea  of  gossip. 

Robert,  in  talking  to  Brigit,  did  not  hear  the  sound  of 
his  own  voice.  He  felt  himself  thinking,  not  speaking. 
His  memory  and  hers  seemed  to  flow  together,  and  their 
common  thoughts  were  an  enchanted  fleet  borne  upon 
that  tide.   .   .   . 

"And  yet,"  said  Brigit,  when  he  had  finished  speaking, 
"and  yet  .  .  .  you  won't  come  to  Les  Papillons  with  me 
to-night." 


78  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"Why  do  you  put  it  in  that  ungenerous  way  f  " 

"Because  I  want  you  to  go  with  us." 

"  I  thought  I  explained  that  I  had  work  .  .  .  unfortu- 
nately ..." 

"If  you  stay  at  home  you  will  not  work.  I  know 
that.  The  true  cause  is  this — you  don't  like  my  hus- 
band I  But  if  I  like  him — and  I  am  his  wife — surely  you 
can  like  him  ?  His  heart  is  all  generosity,  and  I  love  to 
look  at  his  beautiful  coats  !  Please  like  him  because  he 
is  so  kind  to  me  !  " 

"  How  could  any  one  be  otherwise  than  kind  to  you  ?  " 

"Oh!  oh!  And  you  can  dare  to  ask  me  that?  I 
have  never  till  now  been  made  unhappy — never  !  No 
one  has  ever  refused  me  anything.  And  why  ?  because 
I  am  perfectly  reasonable.  But  you — you  won't  look  at 
me  and  you  keep  saying,  'no'  to  the  poor  wall !  The 
wall  has  not  begged  you  to  go  to  the  theatre.  I  was  the 
one  !  " 

"Then,  yes,"  said  Robert.  "Yes!  There!  why 
should  I  give  up  everything?  I  have  been  dying  to  say 
'yes.'  I  could  not  believe  that  you  could  want  such  a 
dull,  prosing  ..." 

"  How  silly  of  you,  "said  Brigit,  smoothing  back  a 
lock  of  her  hair.  "But  now  we  can  go  downstairs  to  the 
others.     I  am  wondering  where  they  are." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  79 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Orange  opened  the  door  and  Brigit,  leading  the  way, 
went  out  into  the  corridor  with  that  light  and  swing- 
ing step  which  was  one  of  her  peculiar  characteristics. 
Neither  of  them  spoke,  and,  when  they  reached  the  top 
of  the  staircase,  both  were  relieved  by  the  sight  of  Par- 
flete  and  Hercy  seated  at  a  small  table  in  the  hall  below. 

Parflete,  on  observing  his  wife,  stood  up  and  went  for- 
ward to  meet  her.  He  looked  the  pattern  of  court  equer- 
ries, and,  as  he  handed  her  to  a  seat,  he  quoted  the  well- 
loved  lines  from  Dante  : — 

*  "  Negli  occhi  porta  la  mia  donna  Amore  ; 
Per  che  si  fa  gentil  cib  ch'ella  mira  ; 
Ov'ella  passa,  ogni  uom  vSr  lei  sigira, 
E  cui  salutafa  treniar  lo  core" 

Robert  had  started  with  a  resolve  to  fight  what  he  in- 
wardly called  his  own  uncharitable  spirit,  but  this  greet- 
ing seemed  to  him  to  show  so  false  a  rapture  that  his 
heart  was  set  burning  anew  with  all  the  fires  of  disgust 
and  jealousy.  The  religious  calm  which  had  settled 
upon  his  mind  was  now  disturbed  by  the  frequent  reitera- 
tion of  an  active  thought  to  the  effect  that  Wrexham  Par- 
flete needed  kicking. 

Brigit,  however,  who  was  not  suffering  persecution 
from  the  furies,  acknowledged  the  pompous  compliment 

*  "  My  lady  carries  love  within  her  eyes ; 
All  that  she  looks  on  is  made  pleasanter; 
Upon  her  path  men  turn  to  gaze  at  her, 
He  whom  she  greeteth  feels  his  heart  to  rise." 


8o  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

by  a  blush  that  came,  partly  from  a  gentle  pleasure  in 
her  husband's  praise,  partly  from  a  feeling  that  the  others 
ridiculed — or  worse,  misjudged  him.  She,  too,  might 
have  found  it  necessary  to  suppress  a  smile  at  the  dollish 
figure  and  the  mincing  utterance  of  the  Archduke's  chief  ad- 
viser, and  this  thought,  in  itself,  was  disturbing  to  her  sense 
of  what  was  loyal.  She  understood  that  coxcomb's  mor- 
bid character,  the  chief  faults  of  which  arose  from  an  over- 
anxiety  to  make  himself  agreeable,  and  an  under-estimate 
of  his  natural  power  to  please.  His  talk  was  an  elabo- 
rate paraphrase  of  his  ideas,  and  his  outward  existence 
was  a  travesty  of  the  life  within  him.  The  unacted  Par- 
flete  was  a  man  of  many  hardly-won  accomplishments, 
and  some  genuine  virtues,  but  the  edition  of  himself 
which  he  presented  to  the  world  was,  if  more  amusing, 
far  less  respectable  than  the  original  creature.  He  glit- 
tered and  twinkled  at  the  Court  where  he  was  a  great 
favorite  with  errant  heirs-apparent  who  liked  to  sip  in- 
struction through  anecdotes.  Ambassadors  and  states- 
men remarked  him  with  less  pleasure,  for  the  former 
thought  his  influence  unaccountable,  and  the  latter  feared 
his  wit.  Bismarck  had  once  described  him  as  ''a  velvet 
buffoon."  Disraeli  summed  him  up  more  leniently  as  "a 
goldfish  ivitU  a  soul. " 

"Of  course  you  will  have  some  more  coffee,"  ex- 
claimed Berenville,  who  was  now  eager  for  a  reconcilia- 
tion. "  Gargon,  two  cups  of  coffee!  Parflete's  note,  it 
seems,  was  a  rigmarole  about  an  opera  box,  but  it  was 
written  in  such  diplomatic,  such  courtly  language,  that  I 
though  it  meant  Miss  Lucifer  was  in  a  four  stone  for  the 
Chester  Cup.  In  my  anxiety  to  learn  more  I  nearly 
broke  my  neck  !  " 

"  The  ivords  of  Mercury  sound  harsh  after  the  songs  of 
Apollo,"  said  Parflete,  in  his  most  ironical  manner,  "but 
it    was   decreed  that  we  should  all    meet  at  this  table. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  8i 

Listen  I     Berenville  and  I   were  sitting  here  wondering 
why  we  had  been  born —  " 

"Or,"  said  Hercy,  "whether  we  should  toddle  round 
to  the  Cercle  de  I'Union  for  a  little  game  of  cards." 

"When  v^e  looked  up  and  whom  should  we  see  within 
five  feet  of  us,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  his  face  a  ruin 
and  his  mind,  to  all  appearance,  a  howling  wilderness — 
but  .   .   .   " 

"  Old  Dizzy  I  "  exclaimed  Berenville. 

"Mr.  Disraeli!"  said  Parflete.  "My  astonishment 
was  great.  He  remembered  me  at  once,  and  showed 
surprise  when  I  lold  him  of  my  marriage.  He  knew 
your  mother,  dearest  !  But  I  made  the  grand  coup 
when,  by  the  merest  accident,  I  mentioned  the  author  of 
Basil  Leniaitre.  I  said  that  you  were  a  member  of  our 
party." 

He  looked  at  Robert,  whose  discomfort  had  now 
reached  a  culminating  point.  Parflete  continued  in  a 
slow  strain,  as  though  he  were  tasting  his  own  words  and 
finding  them  pleasant  to  the  palate, — 

"  Mr.  Disraeli  at  once  observed  that  he  had  read 
Basil  Lemaitre  with  concern  and  pleasure — concern  for 
the  author's  career,  and  pleasure  in  his  gifts  of  poetical 
expression. " 

"  Don't  put  it  on  too  thick  !  "  said  the  graceful  Hercy. 

"  He  laid  such  emphasis  on  the  word  poetical,"  said 
Parflete,  undismayed,  "  I  believe  that  he  has  found  out  that 
you  are  a  Platonist  !  He  asked  me  to  present  you  to  him, 
and  I  promised  to  do  so.  This  is,  without  a  doubt,  the 
second  opportunity  of  your  life.  Disraeli  is  not  in  office, 
and  therefore  he  has  great  power  behind  the  scenes.  If 
you  could  excite  his  interest  for  Reckage,  it  would  be  a 
good  day's  work." 

This  last  touch  was  skilful.  Parflete  was  well  aware 
that  Orange  could  never  be  induced  to  make  an  acquaint- 


83  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ance  with  a  view  to  the  possible  advantage  which  might 
accrue  to  himself  from  the  encounter.  As  a  mere  matter 
of  good  manners,  he  would  have  shrunk  from  an  introduc- 
tion to  Disraeli  by  any  chance  out  of  the  common  order 
of  things  in  social  life.  The  truest  modesty  is  three  parts 
pride.  Robert  had  too  independent  a  spirit  to  seek  suc- 
cess by  favor,  or  to  strive  to  keep  it,  when  gained  by  the 
assiduous  cultivation  of  useful  friends.  He  felt,  too,  that 
his  own  achievements  in  literature  were  as  yet  so  slight 
and  imperfect  that  it  would  have  required  nothing  short 
of  insolence  to  think  they  could  possess  any  pressing 
claim  upon  the  weary  ex-minister's  attention.  But  these 
personal  considerations  were  now  overruled  by  the 
thought,  that,  in  speaking  with  the  eminent  politician,  he 
might  be  able  to  utter  a  word  in  Lord  Reckage's  be- 
half. 

"  I  wish  he  would  do  something  for  Reckage,"  said 
Hercy,  who,  with  the  rest  of  their  little  clique  in  England, 
thought  that  Orange's  two  romances  were  as  dust  in  com- 
parison with  Reckage's  one  speech  on  the  Secularization 
of  Ecclesiastical  Property. 

"  Robert,  you  must  wake  him  up  about  Beau.  You 
might  remind  him  that  papa  always  supports  him  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  He  went  up  to  town  with  his  whole 
back  in  plaster  of  Paris  just  to  vote  for — " 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Parfiete,  under  his  breath. 
"  here  he  comes  I  What  a  proof  of  the  man's  kindness. 
He  has  returned  on  purpose.  Hereafter  I  shall  always 
defend  him.     This  is  an  historic  moment !  " 

The  statesman  was  walking  slowly,  but  with  rather  long 
strides,  through  the  public  drawing-room  that  faced  them. 
His  worn  and  livid  countenance  had  lost  the  romantic 
beauty  to  which  he  owed  much  of  his  early  fortune, 
but  neither  illness  nor  anxiety  had  dimmed  the  piercing 
brilliancy  of  his  expression.     It  was  impossible  to   see 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  83 

him  without  observing  the  conspicuous  details  of  a  cos- 
tume which  was  certainly  not  the  least  uncommon  part 
of  his  picturesque  and  amazing  personality.  He  wore  a 
light  overcoat,  gray  trousers,  a  white  hat  and  lavender 
gloves.  When  he  saw  Parflete  advancing  toward  him,  he 
smiled  as  if  he  had  fully  intended  to  be  met,  and  now  ex- 
pected to  be  amused. 

If,  in  gaining  his  point  with  Orange,  the  equerry  had 
given  evidence  of  his  tact,  it  had  not  been  exhibited  in  a 
less  striking  degree  during  his  conversation  with  Disraeli. 
That  diplomatist  had  been  rather  vexed  than  otherwise  to 
find  himself  suddenly  accosted  by  a  man  whom  he  asso- 
ciated with  all  the  fussy  trivialities  of  Court  etiquette,  and 
Parflete's  own  account  of  the  first  moments  of  their  inter- 
view was  probably  a  flattering  sketch  of  what  actually 
took  place.  But  the  mention  of  Robert's  name  in  connec- 
tion with  the  novel  Basil  Lemaitre  had  stirred  Disraeli's 
interest,  more  particularly  when  he  heard  him  described 
as  "  the  son  of  a  Dominican  apostate  by  a  descendant  in 
the  female  line  of  Cromwell's  friend.  Lord  Wharborough. 
She  was,"  to  continue  the  Parfletean  strain,  "  a  beautiful 
creature,  as  wilful  as  the  devil  and  as  great  a  Puritan  as 
Michal,  the  wife  of  David." 

"  And  who  was  this  lady  ?  "  asked  Disraeli. 

"  She  was  disowned  by  her  family,"  had  been  the  reply. 
"  Her  father  broke  his  heart.  I  may  not  mention  the 
name,  but  he  held  a  high  position." 

"  I  should  think,"  said  Disraeli,  dryly,  "  that  your  young 
friend  was  in  some  danger  of  becoming  a  charlatan  from 
the  sheer  force  of  a  sensational  pedigree." 

"But  his  education  has  been  too  severe,"  said  Par- 
flete. 

He  had  then  told  how  the  young  man  had  received  his 
literary  training  while  acting  as  companion  and  secretary 
to  the  sons  of  the  Earl  of  Almouth. 


84  THE  SCHOOI.  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  He  had  remarkable  tutors,  sir — coming  men  them- 
selves, in  fact;  Ledward  taught  them  the  classics,  Grant- 
ham put  them  on  to  general  ideas."* 

"Then  I  admit,"  said  Disraeli,  with  his  peculiar  smile, 
"that  he  ought  to  be,  on  the  whole,  a  thoroughly  decent 
scoundrel." 

But  nevertheless  his  curiosity,  which  was  not,  as  a  rule, 
easily  excited,  had  received  a  stimulus.  He  expressed  a 
genuine  wish  to  meet  Mr.  Parflete's  "accomplished  friend," 
and  this,  considering  his  own  rather  irritable  state  of  mind, 
and  his  hardly  concealed  dislike  of  the  gossipy  Wrexham, 
was  a  tribute  to  the  latter's  persuasiveness. 

As  he  now  came  up  to  the  table,  he  scanned  the  group, 
and  was  immediately  pleased  at  Robert's  unpretentious, 
yet  manly,  bearing.  When  his  eyes  fell  with  a  glance  of 
almost  tragic  wonder  upon  Brigit,  she  rose  from  her  seat 
and  dropped  him  a  little  curtsey  as  she  had  been  taught 
to  do  to  dignitaries  of  the  Church,  royalties  and  elderly 
persons.  But  she  listened  to  Disraeli's  congratulations 
on  her  marriage — to  the  Gcvnaliel  of  Imperial  Councils — with 
the  self-possession  of  a  nature  born  rather  to  accept,  than 
to  pay,  homage.  She  might  have  been  a  young  princess 
in  exile,  and,  during  the  short  conversation  which  followed, 
she  showed  a  dignity  as  simple  as  it  was  touching.  Of 
the  four  men  surrounding  her,  Parflete  himself  was  prob- 
ably the  most  astonished  at  her  ease  of  manner.  She  was 
only  then  on  her  honeymoon,  and  had  not  yet  mixed  in 
society.  She  had  not  yet  been  presented  at  the  Court, 
nor  was  she  aware  of  the  close  relationship  that  she  bore 
toward  the  Archduke. 

Robert  thought  her  so  delightful  in  this  stately  aspect 
that  he  caught  none  of  the  remarks  which  passed — they 

*  In  justice  to  Parflete's  power  of  estimating  worldly  success,  Led- 
ward became,  many  years  after,  Bishop  of  Barchester,  and  G»-<*ntham 
was  made  Professor  of  Mo'-''  Philosophy  at  Camford, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  85 

were  doubtless  unimportant — till  he  heard  himself  directly 
addressed  by  Disraeli. 

'•  I  am  going  to  the  Bibliotheque  Imp^riale,"  he  said; 
"  would  you  care  to  accompany  me  ?  " 

"  Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure,"  replied 
Robert,  with  perfect  honesty. 

•'  But  am  I  taking  you  from  your  friends?  " 

There  followed  an  exchange  of  smiles  and  bows,  com- 
pliments and  vague  expressions  of  unfelt  hopes  with 
regard  to  further  meetings. 

In  a  few  moments  Disraeli  and  the  young  secretary 
were  walking  toward  the  Rue  Vivienne. 

' '  Let  us  go  first, "  said  Disraeli,  ' '  to  the  left  and  quieter 
bank  of  the  Seine.  The  ancient  hotel  of  Cardinal  Mazarin 
is,  perhaps,  too  noisy  at  this  hour  in  spite  of  its  thick 
walls.  My  delight,  after  all,  is  in  the  air  and  the  sun- 
shine. I  like  the  river.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the 
colors  of  rivers  ?  There  is  the  verdant  Loire,  the  yellow 
Tiber,  the  silvery  Thames,  the  ruddy  Hudson,  the  purple 
Rhine,  the  blue  Danube,  but  the  Seine —  how  should  one 
describe  the  Seine  .''  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  dusty,"  said  Robert,  with  his  usual 
bluntness. 

"Ah  !  the  dusty  Seine  !  I  see  you  are  alive  rather  to 
the  paradox  than  the  beauty  in  things.  Your  book  led 
me  to  expect  another  order  of  perception.  It  shows  the 
influence  of  Plato.  There  is  a  heartlessness,  however,  in 
the  writings  of  Plato  which  makes  his  mysticism  forbid- 
ding to  my  mind.  But  the  mysticism  in  your  hero  was 
religious — like  Newman's.  It  was  not  coldly  philosophi- 
cal. At  your  age  I  was  myself  a  dreamer  of  dreams.  I 
soon  learned  that  I, was  too  imaginative  to  be  useful  any- 
where except  in  a  life  of  action." 

"Surely,"  said  Robert,    "that,  too,  is  a  paradox." 
"Possibly.     But  the  greatest  leaders  have  been  men 


86  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

of  the  highest  imagination.  Shakespeare  and  Milton 
expressed  what  Elizabeth  and  Cromwell  imagined.  I 
have  been  an  idealist  always.  Yet,  while  I  am  infinitely 
yours  in  respect  of  your  beliefs,  my  experience  keeps  me 
separate  from  your  impatient  hopefulness.  Hope  is  the 
heroic  form  of  despair.  Such  must  have  been  the  feeling 
of  the  great  Lawgiver,  who,  if  you  remember,  sang  as  he 
started  for  the  Promised  Land,  and  died  in  silence  when 
it  was  at  last  shown  to  him." 

The  sadness  of  his  tone  was  so  profound  that  Robert 
felt  it  would  have  been  an  impertinence  to  offer  any 
remark.  They  walked  on  in  silence  till  Disraeli  spoke 
again. 

"What  I  feel  now  is  this.  We  have  reached  the  stage 
when  sentimentality  and  philosophism  have  taken  up 
the  room  of  poets  and  philosophers.  The  new  generation 
in  our  educated  classes  seem  to  feel  that  nothing,  save 
money,  is  worth  their  while.  On  the  other  hand,  in  the 
labor  classes,  there  is  an  aggressive  desire  on  the  part  of 
each  unit  to  assert  his  or  her  individuality.  Now  it  has 
always  seemed  to  me  that  the  gospel  of  Individuality  is  a 
doctrine  of  failure,  whether  in  politics  or  art  or  in  any 
other  sphere.  That  Mazzini  said  this  when  he  was  urging 
a  revolution,  with  himself  as  its  presiding  spirit,  does  not 
detract  from  its  profound  truth  as  a  dictum  !  A  strong 
personality,  following  on  the  beaten  track,  may,  perhaps, 
go  a  step  or  two  farther  than  his  guides,  whereas,  if  he 
seeks  to  cut  out  a  path  of  his  own,  he  will  find  himself 
wandering  in  a  painful  circle  outside  the  common  starting- 
point." 

"  Still,"  said  Robert,  "no  great  work  was  ever  done 
by  a  system,  whereas  systems  arise  out  of  individual 
exertions." 

"  It  is  only  the  Church  of  Rome,"  said  Disraeli,  quietly, 
•'  which,  as  a  governing  body,  has  been  able  to  encourage 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  S7 

the  great  ideas  of  any  one  person  without  loss  to  its  own 
power,  or  without  disaster  to  the  person  encouraged.  I 
speak  of  it,  observe,  purely  as  a  governing  body." 

"  I  think  that  may  be  explained,"  said  Robert,  "  on  this 
ground.  Where  the  welfare  of  a  State  is  concerned,  the 
heart  is  probably  apprenticed  to  false  gods,  and  the 
greatest  of  false  gods  is  expediency.  A  measure  might 
be  advantageous  for  the  moment  only,  yet,  for  the  sake 
of  the  momentary  gain,  a  politician  might  refuse  to  con- 
template a  future  which  would  not  come  in  his  own  time. 
In  the  policy  of  Rome,  however — and  I,  too,  speak  of  it 
as  a  governing  body,  the  first  consideration  is  for  the 
eternal  welfare  of  the  Church;  the  whole  point  of  view  is 
fixed  on  what  is  /o  come,  and  the  great  ideas,  whether  in 
the  individual,  or  in  the  council  as  a  body,  all  arise  from 
a  common  religious  belief. '" 

"  I  see,"  said  Disraeli,  smiling,  "that  you  are  not  one 
of  those  who  hold  that  the  Church  of  Rome  apostatized  at 
Trent." 

"  No,"  replied  Robert,  shortly,  "  but  I  am  not  a  Papist." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Disraeli,  "some  day  you  may  arrive 
at  a  compromise  between  Rome  and  Canterbury." 

"Never,"  said  Robert. 

"At  eight-and-twenty,"  said  Disraeli,  "  I,  too,  thought 
that  compromises  were  nearly  always  immoral,  as  well 
as  dangerous,  but,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  you  will  find 
that  the  best-ordered  life  is  that  which  shows  the  largest 
record  of  compromises.  One  need  not  be  a  monger  of 
principles — that  is  a  vulgar  trade,  and  always  leads  to 
moral  bankruptcy — but  one  can  be,  as  it  were,  a  worker 
in  principles  and  set  one's  mind  as  a  piece  of  mosaic. 
You  have  insight,  but  you  should  acquire  flexibility. 
Flexibility  is  the  great  thing.  In  your  book  it  appeared 
in  the  guise  of  cosmopolitanism.  Cosmopolitanism  is  a 
beautiful   word,  if  it  be  vmderstood   to  mean   liberty  for 


88  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

all  men  :  when,  however,  it  means,  as  it  seems  to  mean 
in  the  case  of  a  great  Republic  I  could  name,  an  indis- 
criminate hospitality,  you  will  find  that  the  host  will  wake 
one  morning  to  find  himself  shivering  in  nakedness  on  his 
own  doorstep  !  But  tell  me,  have  you  yourself  never 
thought  of  going  into  Parliament?" 

"I  have  thought  of  it,"  said  Robert,  "but  as  something 
remote  and  barely  probable.     But  my  secretarial  work 
•brings  me  into  close  touch  with  the  political  problems." 

"To  be  sure,"  said  Disraeli ;   "I  had  forgotten  that." 

"I  should  feel  most  grateful  if  you  would  give  me  your 
opinion  of  Lord  Reckage. " 

"  Reckage  !     Do  you  mean  Lord  Almouth's  eldest  son  ? 
I  confess  he  has  never  occurred  to  me." 

"  I  think,"  said  Robert,  with  some  warmth,  "  he  will 
have  to  be  remembered  one  of  these  days." 

"As  I  remember  him  now,"  said  Disraeli,  "his  head 
seems  made  without  back  windows  ;  it  is  all  facade  and 
nothing  else  !  His  private  merits  may  be  astonishing, 
but  I  do  not  feel  that  the  destinies  are  actively  engaged 
in  fighting  for  his  future.  Why  should  you  bury  your 
talent  under  a  friend's  hat?"  he  added,  with  a  pierc- 
ing look.  "You  have  sense,  your  book  shows  that. 
You  have  ideals,  and  you  have  knowledge.  My  advice 
would  be  that  you  should  first  essay  your  strength  in  the 
reduction  of  some  Liberal  majority.  I  mistake  if  a  chance 
of  the  kind  does  not  occur  shortly  at  Norbet  Royal.  Van- 
deleur's  conduct  has  put  scandal  to  the  blush,  and  the 
angels  of  peace  themselves  must  have  wept  over  his 
duplicity.  But  while  the  English  always  have  the  knack 
to  oppose  good  men,  they  evince  a  touching  loyalty  for 
traitors.  Vandeleur  will  be  returned  to  a  certainty  at  the 
next  election.  He  will  keep  his  seat  till  Government  is 
beaten  ;  that  will  be  your  opportunity.  Your  real  troubles 
will  not  begin  till  you  are  actually  in  the  House." 


THE.  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  89 

"You  speak,  sir,  as  though  I  were  already  there  1  " 

"Why  not?"  said  Disraeli.  "Is  the  average  intelli- 
gence at  the  Talking  I\Iill  so  high  that  you  find  my  sup- 
position over-flattering .''  The  difificulty  does  not  lie  in 
getting  there,  nor  in  keeping  there,  but  in  gaining  respect 
for  being  there  !  As  for  parties — as  Manning  once  said 
to  me,  or  as  I  may  have  said  to  Manning — it  is  now 
merely  a  question  between  aristocratic  selfishness  and 
well-to-do  selfishness.  All  things  hinge  now  on  one  pas- 
sion— the  least  useful  passion  in  public  life — ^jealousy  !  " 

"I  shall  have  little  to  fear  at  that  rate, "  said  Orange, 
who  had  a  very  modest  opinion  of  his  own  ability. 

"When  I  started,"  said  Disraeli,  putting  his  arm  in 
Robert's,  "I  was  all  for  sedition  !  Now  you  are  all  for 
tradition  !  Don't  protest  ;  you  will  become  a  Roman 
Catholic  because  you  will  find  nowhere  out  of  Rome, — 
poetry  and  the  spirit  of  democracy  and  a  reverence  for 
authority  all  linked  together  in  one  irrefragable  chain. 
But  I  must  warn  you  that  such  a  step  would  prejudice 
your  whole  political  career.  It  would  be  throwing  down 
the  gauntlet  to  Fortune  herself." 

"That,"  said  Robert,  flushing,  "is  the  strongest  argu- 
ment you  could  bring  forward  in  Rome's  favor.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  I  had  everything  to  gain  by  acknowl- 
edging her  claims.  Now  you  tell  me — and  I  could  ask 
for  no  better  judge — that  it  would  mean  a  severe  blow  to 
my  worldly  prospects  my  way  seems  clearer." 

"  The  thing  you  mistook  for  a  temptation  begins  to  look 
like  a  duty  !  Certainly,  the  best  test  of  any  belief  is  the 
sacrifice  one  is  prepared  to  make  for  it.  Have  you  never 
thought  of  entering  the  priesthood  ?  " 

"Never!  " 

"The  unmarried  nature  is,  to  my  mind,  incomplete. 
It  has  great,  even  mystical,  power,  so  far  as  it  goes,  but 
its  range  and  knowledge  is  necessarily  limited.     To  quot» 


90  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

the  example  of  Christ  is  to  forget  His  divinity.  I  do  not 
see  how  we  can,  without  descending  into  gross  anthropo- 
morphism, make  Him  a  pattern  in  all  human  relations. 
He  had  an  unique  mission  to  fulfil.  Few,  indeed,  of  us 
can  feel  that  we  have  even  so  much  as  a  raisori  d'etre 
apart  from  the  divine  incomprehensible  desire  to  multiply 
souls.  Men  who  take  upon  themselves  priestly  vows 
must — or  ought — to  be  sure  that  they  are  marked  out  for 
some  express  service.  What  might  be  an  act  of  splendid 
obedience,  sublime  self-renunciation  in  a  Newman,  would 
be  presumption  and  folly  in  a  lesser  spirit.  I  hope  you 
agree. " 

"Most  thoroughly  ;  I  have  never  doubted  that  my  own 
work,  such  as  it  is,  is  in  the  secular  life." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Disraeli,  with  a  certain  slyness,  "  that 
you  think  the  secular  life  the  harder  of  the  two.  You 
regard  marriage  as  a  state  of  discipline  ruled  by  a  code  of 
somewhat  stern  responsibilities." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Robert,  laughing. 

"Your  friend,  Mr.  Parflete,  is  an  interesting  fellow," 
observed  Disraeli ;  "his  young  wife  might  be  called  the 
Madonna's  married  sister  !  There  is  all  the  sweetness, 
with  just  the  warmth  of  human  peccability,  possibly  jeal- 
ousy, possibly  temper.  I  have  traced  the  short  upper  lip 
to  its  imperial  archetype  !  Her  mother  was  a  prettier 
woman,  but  less  spirited.  It  was  an  unhappy  hour  when 
the  Archduke's  roving  eye  fell  on  Duboc's  enchanting 
face.  But  for  a  weak  soul — she  did  much.  He  married 
her." 

"  I  never  knew  that,"  exclaimed  Robert. 

"Fortunately  for  history  there  is  always  one  indiscreet 
member  of  the  College  of  Cardinals.  He  told  me  the 
story.  Duboc  was  married  to  the  Archduke  according  to 
the  rites  of  Holy  Church.  Of  course  it  was  illegal — or,  if 
you  prefer  it,    morganatic — but  her  death  saved  a  lot  of 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  91 

trouble— a  lot  of  trouble.  This  girl  is  perfectly  legitimate 
so  far  as  the  Recording  Angel  is  concerned.  Now,  shall 
we  turn  ? " 

Robert  felt  too  profoundly  interested  in  the  news  he 
had  just  learned,  to  trust  himself  far  in  making  a  reply. 

"If  this  were  generally  known,"  he  asked  after  a  mo- 
mentary hesitation,  '"would  it  be  of  any  advantage  to 
Mrs.  Parfiete  ?  " 

"  For  the  present,"  said  Disraeli,  "  it  should  be  kept  a 
secret.  I  gather  from  Parflete's  remarks  to  me  that  his 
wife  knows  nothing  of  her  actual  parentage.  She  has 
been  given  to  understand  that  her  father  was  a  young 
officer,  /e  Capitaine  Duhoc.  It  is  better  so.  The  con- 
sciousness of  royal  blood  works,  in  most  cases  of  the 
kind,  as  a  curse.  Take  for  instance  the  Countess  Orzelska, 
who  was  the  daughter  of  August  of  Poland  by  a  French 
milliner.  Who  would  dare  to  write  her  history  ?  Is  there 
any  language  obscure  enough  to  clothe  it?  " 

"But  Mrs, Parflete's  mother  was  no  ordinary  woman," 
said  Robert.  "  She  is  not  to  be  compared  with  the 
typical  French  milliner.  She  had  great  accomplishments. 
She  was  beautiful ;  she  was  honorably  born  ;  she  was 
virtuous." 

"She  belonged,  however,  to  the  race  of  wits  and 
mockers,  an  order  of  beings  ever  more  popular  in  France 
than  elsewhere.  You  may  remember  what  the  Bishop  of 
Paris  wrote  to  the  French  Court  before  the  coming  of 
Henry  VIII.  and  Anne  Boleyn  to  Calais,  '  Surtoui  Je  voiis 
prie  que  vous  osiez  de  la  court  ceux  qui  out  la  reputation 
d'estre  mocqueurs  et  gaudisseurs,  car  c'est  bien  la  chose  en 
ce  monde  autant  hate  de  ceste  nation.'  (Keep  the  wits  and 
mockers  out  of  the  Court,  for  the  English  detest  all  such 
above  all  things.) 

He  was  clearly  thinking  a  little  of  his  own  reputation 
for  epigrams  and  satire,  and,  also,  he  may  have  intended 


gi  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

his  words  to  convey  some  warning  to  his  young  com- 
panion. 

He  talked  on  in  the  same  strain,  drifting  apparently  in  an 
illogical  sequence  from  one  subject  to  another,  yet  always 
introducing  some  remark  which  had  its  right  place  in  the 
general  scheme  of  advice.  The  conversation  established 
a  firm  understanding  between  the  two  men,  and,  when 
they  reached  the  hotel,  Disraeli  invited  his  new  acquaint- 
ance to  join  him  at  breakfast  on  the  morrow.  For  the 
result  of  these  two  interviews  and  several  other  matters, 
which  may,  perhaps,  not  be  without  interest  for  the 
reader,  it  would  be  better  to  take  Robert's  own  account 
given  in  the  following  letter  to  Lord  Reckage  : — 

"  What  better  illustration  could  be  found  of  the  extraordinary 
laws  of  human  economy  than  in  my  meetings  with  Parflete  .' 
For  the  second  time  in  my  life  this  man,  whom  I  have  sedu- 
lously avoided  and  ever  disliked,  has  been  instrumental  in  chang- 
ing tile  whole  course  of  my  plans.  When  I  came  to  Paris  in 
185 — ,  he  presented  me  to  you  and  Hercy  at  the  Locrines. 
Yesterday  he  introduced  me  to  Disraeli,  with  whom  I  have  had 
two  long  and,  to  me,  memorable  interviews.  He  has  encouraged 
me  to  think  of  entering  Parliament  ;  he  has  mentioned  the  con- 
stituency of  Norbet  Royal.  I  believe,  from  all  he  said,  that  I 
could  be  of  greater  service  to  you  if  I  were  actually  in  the 
House  than  if  I  were  a  mere  outsider.  Disraeli's  kindness 
passes  all  belief  I  am  to  cross  over  to  England  with  him  to- 
morrow. At  the  moment  he,  too,  is  writing  a  novel,  some 
chapters  of  which  he  has  shown  me.  They  are  the  most  bril- 
liant things  of  their  kind  in  any  language.  The  book  is  to  be 
called  Lothair.  Roman  Catholicism  plays  a  great  part  in  the 
plot,  and  it  is  delightful  to  hear  him  utter  his  views  on  the  sub- 
ject. They  have  changed  a  little  since  he  wrote  Sybil,  whereas 
he  was,  in  his  sympathies,  Roman  Catholic  then,  he  is  Pagan 
Catholic  now.  He  knows  a  lot  ;  in  fact,  he  possesses  real  learn- 
ing. It  is  more  than  a  great  mind  ;  he  is  a  great  spirit.  If  I 
agreed  with  him  at  all  points  I  should  distrust  my  enthusiasm  ; 
it  might  come  less  from  an  admiration  of  his  genius  than  from 
the  fact  that  he  seemed  the  witty  e.xponent  of  my  own  theories 
and  beliefs.  No,  my  allegiance  to  him  is  based  on  a  stronger 
feeling   than  flattered  egoism,  wrongly   called  sympathy.     He 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  93 

has  courage  and  intellect,  and  if  I  found  these  qualities,  even  in 
an  enemy,  my  heart,  in  spite  of  me,  would  go  out  to  him.  I 
prefer  a  brave  foe  before  a  weak  ally.  However  much,  then,  I 
might  be  tempted  to  quarrel  with  the  author  oiLothair,  I  could 
never  forget  his  magnificent  attainments  or  his  audacity.  Last 
evening  I  went  with  Hercy  and  the  Parfletes  to  Les  Papillons. 
Parflete  reminded  me  that  you  supped  behind  the  scenes  there 
in  185 —  with  Madame  Duboc,  the  Archduke  Charles  and  the 
child.  Have  you  forgotten  it  .''  I  was  there  the  same  night,  but 
I  was  not  invited  to  the  supper.  The  whole  thing  returned  to 
me  ;  every  emotion,  every  thought,  every  word,  every  sight ; 
and  when  I  realized  all  that  had  happened  since  poor  Hen- 
riette's  tragic  death,  my  own  selfish  life,  this  marriage  of 
the  little  girl — who  sat  there,  by-the-by,  as  happy  and  ob- 
livious of  evil  as  her  mother  had  been  sad  and  full  of  dread — it 
was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear.  The  braying  band  and 
the  painted  dancers,  the  repulsive  buffoons  and  the  pomatumed 
athletes  seemed  to  have  undergone  no  change.  It  was  the  per- 
formance of  185 —  all  over  again,  and  these  ten  eventful  years 
might  have  been,  as  it  were,  an  etitr'acte.  The  one  who  was 
missing — never  more  to  return,  and  never  more  to  be  replaced 
—was  the  loving,  beautiful,  heart-broken  woman — Henriette 
Duboc.  She  had  played  the  part  of  an  enchantress.  It  is  mad- 
ness, it  is  wrong  to  revisit  old  scenes.  One  might  as  well  un- 
earth the  dead — ^just  as  the  insufferable  hero  of  Dumas 's  romance 
dug  up  the  corpse  of  his  mistress — Marguerite  Gautier — in 
order  to  cure  himself  of  grief.  But  a  love  that  could  be  so 
cured  was  more  corrupt  at  its  best  moment  than  any  honest 
mass  of  dust  and  worms  could  ever  be.  You  will  see  my  mood. 
...  I  have  bought  for  a  song  a  fine  clean  copy  of  Jansen's 
Augustinus  J  a  Robert  Estienne  New  Testament  (a  gem)  and 
a  Montaigne  (1595) — which  fairly  beats  anything  in  your  father's 
collection.  Hercy,  of  course,  returns  with  me  to-morrow. 
Aumerle  will  remain  for  the  Grand  Prix,  and  after  that  he 
will  visit  De  Brie  at  Vieuville.  The  Parfietes,  I  hear,  are  going 
also.  She  is  a  very  young  woman  to  be  hurled  into  that  dis- 
solute society.  The  knock-knee'd  Marquis  de  Chaumont  has 
given  her  some  novels  by  Paul  de  Kock.  To-night  they  are 
taking  her  to  the  Jardin  Mabille.  And  she  has  just  left  a  con- 
vent !  Yesterday,  at  dinner.  De  Brie  entertained  her  with  the 
story  of  la  Pomar6 — whose  epitaph  you  may  remember — 
'  Pomare,  queen  of  Mabille,  princess  of  Ranelagh,  grand- 
duchess  de  la  Chauniiere,  by  the  grace  of  the  polka,  the  can- 
can, and  other  cachuchas  !'  Inasmuch  as  the  same  kind  ot 
thing  was  written  about  Henriette  Duboc,  I  did  not   think  his 


94  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

anecdote  was  in  the  best  taste.  ...  I  am  glad  to  get  Hercy 
away  from  the  Cercle  de  V  Union  and  the  Jockey  Club.  Parflete 
is  welcome  in  neither  place.  He  seems  to  be  regarded  as  an 
upstart,  and  it  will  soon  take  more  than  the  Archduke's  influence 
to  make  them  stomach  him.  But  the  Archduke  himself  is  a 
diminishing  power  in  France — and  perhaps  elsewhere.  Before 
five  years  are  gone,  this  country  will  be  a  Republic.  The  pres- 
ent Government  is  too  romantic  :  the  Empress  is  too  beauti- 
ful ;  there  is  a  Salon  des  Fleurs  in  the  Tuileries  ;  and  this  scent 
of  violets  will  soon  be  overpowered  by  the  smell  of  gunpowder. 
Victor  Hugo  has  already  said  adieu  to  France,  because  she  is 
too  great  to  be  a  nation.  The  Roman  Empire,  he  declares,  be- 
came Christendom  ;  France  will  become — the  world  !  '  Rome 
est  devemie  la  chretienti  ;  toi,  France,  deviens  le  monde  ! ' 
But  your  true  prophet  usually  predicts  a  downfall.  Glory  is 
like  Cupid  in  the  fable  :  it  must  not  be  discovered.  A  war  with 
Germany  seems  inevitable,  and,  if  one  may  believe  Disraeli, 
there  shall  be  other  wars  also.  They  do  not  think  of  these  things 
in  England.  Dizzy  made  a  remark,  which  might  have  been  a 
hit  at  his  opponents,  or  at  certain  colleagues,  'Surely,'  said  he, 
•there  is  no  fool  so  great  as  an  untravelled  Prime  Minister  who 
has  never  tried  the  temper  of  his  neighbors,  or  set  foot  on  the 
land  of  his  allies.'  Our  foreign  secretaries  are,  as  a  rule,  but 
parish  beadles  with  a  Garter  ! — Your  ever  aflfectionate, 

"  R.  O." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  95 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

After  the  Grand  Prix,  Parflete  and  Brigit  went  to  the 
Chateau  de  Vieuville  (near  P'ontainebleau),  on  a  visit  to 
the  Count  de  Brie.  Wlien  they  had  been  there  a  fortnight, 
word  was  received  from  the  Alberian  Court  that  the  Arch- 
duke Charles  was  on  his  way  to  Paris,  and  wished  Parflete 
to  form  part  of  his  suite  during  his  stay  in  France.  The 
equerry,  who  had  been  M'inning  large  sums  of  money  at 
cards,  and  wished  to  reserve  the  fund  thus  raised  for  the 
Archduke's  summer  pleasures  at  Madama,  was  somewhat 
cast  down  at  the  royal  command.  His  Imperial  High- 
ness was  a  costly,  if  impressive,  fellow-traveller,  and 
Parflete,  who  had  no  family  claim  to  his  post  at  Court, 
was  well  aware  that  he  could  hope  to  retain  it  by  the 
right  only  of  a  full  and  ready  purse.  Already  he  had 
spent  more  than  half  of  his  property  in  the  inglorious 
struggle  to  keep  a  seat  in  that  enchanted  merry-go-round, 
from  which,  should  one  fall,  he  is  not  missed,  and  a 
hundred  are  ready  to  leap  into  the  vacant  place.  Parflete 
himself  was,  with  all  his  vanity,  too  well  versed  in  human 
nature  to  blame  the  Archduke  for  the  faults  of  his  retinue. 
Is  the  flame  guilty  because  moths  rush  into  it .?  The 
equerry  was,  in  certain  respects,  an  adventurer.  He  had 
elbowed  his  way  through  the  little  crowd  of  poor  noble- 
men who  owned  every  right  to  stand  in  that  palace  which 
their  ancestors  had  defended  at  the  cost,  in  many  cases, 
of  life  and  fortune.  He  was  regarded  justly  enough  as 
an  intruder.  He  was  neither  of  their  blood  nor  their 
class.     His  mother  was  an  Alberian,  but  his  father  was 


96  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

English.  His  position  was  in  the  highest  degree  pre- 
carious ;  and,  when  his  money  failed,  he  knew  well  that 
his  day  would  go  out  in  laughter  and  contempt.  What, 
then,  was  his  chagrin  when  he  learned,  by  a  second  de- 
spatch, that  His  Imperial  Highness,  on  reaching  Paris, 
would  proceed  immediately  to  the  Chateau  de  Vieuville, 
where  (as  the  order  ran),  M.  Parflete  was  to  receive  him 
on  his  arrival. 

For  some  days,  this  gentleman  had  been  conscious  of 
a  certain  estrangement  between  himself  and  his  host.  In 
his  confidential  moments  with  Brigit,  he  expressed  the 
fear  that  he  had  outstayed  his  welcome,  and  the  prospect 
of  remaining  in  a  merely  official  capacity,  where  he  was 
no  longer  regarded  as  an  acquisition  to  the  company, 
seemed  to  prey  upon  his  mind.  Brigit,  however,  had 
been  received  with  exceptional  attentions,  and  was  re- 
garded— ostensibly  because  she  was  a  bride — as  the  guest 
of  honor.  Charles  Aumerle,  who  was  the  one  English- 
man, besides  Parflete,  in  the  party,  attributed  the  favor 
shown  her  to  another  consideration,  namely,  her  imperial 
father. 

Some  of  the  haughtiest  members  of  the  French  aristoc- 
racy were  under  that   roof,    and  the   gay  Duchesse   de 

P ,  who  was  as  eminent  for  good  nature  as  she  was 

exalted  in  birth,  was  especially  kind  to  the  ravissante  et 
malheureuse  en/ant.  It  was,  therefore,  difficult  for  Brigit 
to  appreciate  the  slights  of  which  Parflete  so  bitterly 
complained.  She  tried,  in  vain,  to  understand  the  dis- 
tinction which  certainly  existed  between  the  deference 
which  was  shown  toward  herself  and  the  manner  adopted 
toward  her  husband. 

The  night  before  the  arrival  of  the  Archduke,  Parflete 
came  into  her  bedroom  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
(he  played  cards  till  the  small  hours  every  day),  and  wak- 
ing her,  burst  into  a  terrible  fit  of  crying.     The  poor  child 


THE  SCHOOr.  FOR  SAINTS.  97 

threw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  begged  him  to  tell 
her  his  trouble.  Many  moments  passed  before  he  could 
speak.  Brigit  had  never  supposed  that  a  man  could  either 
sob  or  shed  tears,  and  the  sight  was  to  her  so  appalling 
that  her  own  heart  became  frozen  between  fright  and  ap- 
prehension. She  could  but  lay  her  cheek  against  his 
haggard,  distorted  face  and,  breathing  soft  moans  of 
sympathy,  wait  for  his  words. 

"They  have  accused  me,"  he  said  at  last,  looking 
miserably  into  the  eyes  which  had  never  doubted  him. 
"They  have  accused  me!  It  was  a  cowardly  attack  ; 
they  set  a  trap  for  me.  I  could  have  put  it  all  right  with 
the  very  next  card.  I  had  it  ready,  but  the  brutes  would 
not  give  me  time.  I  challenged  them  ;  not  one  of  them 
had  the  courage  to  accept  my  challenge.  They  dared 
not  fight.  If  you  could  have  seen  their  faces  :  they  were 
like  bloodhounds  !  It  was  a  plot  against  me.  They  are 
jealous  of  me ;  they  think  I  am  an  intruder.  They  have 
been  waiting  for  years  to  come  between  myself  and  the 
Archduke.  If  he  believes  this  I  shall  be  a  ruined  man. 
I  offered  them  all  my  winnings.  I  threw  them  at  their 
feet.  They  questioned  me  as  though  I  were  a  criminal. 
I  don't  know  what  I  said,  but  I  shall  kill  myself.  Can  I 
live  under  such  an  accusation  ?  Would  you  wish  me  to 
live?  They  will  not  even  accept  my  challenge.  I  have 
devoted  my  whole  life  to  these  people.  I  have  amused 
them  and  helped  them  through  their  scrapes,  and  lied 
about  them  in  order  to  keep  them  respected,  and  this  is 
the  end  of  it  all !  Insult,  disgrace,  humiliation  piled  upon 
humiliation  !  " 

"But  the  Archduke,"  said  Brigit ;   "  he  will  know  better. 
He  will  defend  you  and  despise  them." 

"  He  will  be  the  first  to  kick  me  lower,"  said  Parflete, 
"  the  first !     They  have  no  right  to  keep  me  here  as  a 
prisoner,"  he  exclaimed,  changing  his  tone  and  looking 
7 


98  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

wildly  round  the  room.      "  They  may  poison  me.     This  is 
not  England.     I  must  get  away  before  he  comes." 

"Oh,  no  !"  said  Brigit.  "You  are  too  tired  to  think 
now,  but  that  would  place  you  in  the  wrong,  whereas  you 
are  right.  No,  we  must  show  them  that  we  have  nothing 
to  fear." 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  the  wretched  man. 
"They  have  four  spies  to  swear  against  me.  The  traitors  ! 
the  dastards  !  Aumerle  was  the  only  one  who  would 
have  nothing  to  say  one  way  or  the  other.  You  must 
not  think,  because  I  break  down  here  before  you,  that  I 
showed  any  fear  to  them.*  I  withstood  them  to  the 
death,  but — I  am  too  ill  to  face  them  again.  You  must 
not  ask  me  to  face  them  again.  By  God  !  I  have  lost 
my  nerve.     It  was  six  to  one  !  " 

"Sleep  first,"  said  Brigit.      "Try  to  sleep." 

"Oh!  how  can  I  sleep.-*  You  will  have  to  meet  the 
Archduke.  I  cannot  receive  him  with  this  charge  hanging 
over  my  head.  He  would  never  pardon  such  an  affront. 
No  ;  you  see  him,  speak  for  me,  insist  on  seeing  him. 
You  may  remind  him  of  your  mother.  He  never  spared 
her,  but  still  you  have  more  spirit  than  she  had.  He 
likes  to  see  spirit.  Tell  him  that  I  have  been  kind  to  you. 
Tell  him  that  you  are  fond  of  me.  Tell  him  that  I  don't 
ask  to  be  taken  back  to  the  Court.  I  will  go  quietly  away 
anywhere,  where  no  one  will  know  me.  Tell  him  that 
you  will  not  mind  the  banishment.  Go  on  your  knees  to 
him  and  swear  that  you  believe  in  me." 

Brigit  dared  not  question  her  own  misgivings.  She 
could  have  held  her  hands  over  her  ears,  or  put  out  her 
own  eyes,  in  the  agony  of  suspicion  she  now  experienced. 

"Then,"  she  whispered,  "it  was — not  a  mistake." 

*This  seems  to  have  been  true,  and  Aumerle,  in  a  private  account  of 
the  scandal,  declares  that  every  one  was  amazed  at  Parflete's  barefaced 
lying.     He  never  surrendered. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  99 

"I  swear  to  God,"  said  he,  "1  never  did  such  a  thing 
before  !  It  was  the  first  time.  It  meant  one  movement 
and  ten  thousand  francs  in  my  pocliet,  and  I  did  not  want 
them  for  myself  !  This  all  comes  of  thinking  too  much 
about  other  people  !  " 

He  clasped  her  hands. 

"You  won't  desert  me,  will  you  ?"  he  said,  "because 
I  am  telling  you  everything?  " 

"No,"  said  Brigit,  "  I  shall  not  desert  you." 

Her  voice  failed,  and  presently,  though  not  so  soon 
that  he  could  feel  himself  despised,  she  stole  softly  away 
into  a  little  ante-room  where  she  could  pray  for  fortitude 
and  counsel.  Then,  knowing  that  if  she  did  not  sleep 
she  would  be  unequal  to  the  day  before  her,  she  asked  for 
that  gift,  too,  and  it  was  granted. 

Parflete  went  in  to  speak  again  to  her  and  found  her  in 
a  deep  slumber,  yet  with  wet  eyelashes.  This  time  he 
did  not  rouse  her  ;  but  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  her 
golden  hair  which  shone  out  on  the  dark  pillow  of  the 
couch.  The  sunlight  streamed  in  through  the  half-closed 
shutter.  He  could  hear  the  birds  singing  outside.  Who 
would  describe  the  thoughts,  sharper  than  death,  which 
pierced  his  soul  as  he  stood  there  ?  Perhaps  Brigit  owed 
her  very  existence  to  his  treachery  towards  her  mother. 
He  had  assisted  the  Archduke  in  that  cruel  intrigue.  He 
had  laid  snares  at  every  point  for  poor  Henriette's  undo- 
ing. He  had  persuaded  her  into  the  marriage  which, 
none  knew  better  than  he,  was  but  a  vain  form  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law.  Yet  her  child — this  child  of  fatal  love 
and  extreme  despair — was  the  one  being  on  earth  who 
seemed  to  care  for  him  and  would  now  have  to  suffer 
with  him. 

Yet  these  ideas,  sharp  as  they  must  have  been,  must 
also  have  soon  passed,  for  remorse  itself  cannot  be  so 
strong  as  the  injured  vanity  of  a  profoundly  selfish  heart. 


100  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

The  remembrance  of  his  own  disgrace  and  of  the 
hideous  scene  with  his  accusers,  the  knowledge  of  his  cer- 
tain banishment  from  the  Court,  which  he  loved  and  feared 
with  the  frantic  servility  of  the  born  favorite-in-waiting, 
overwhelmed  him  as  a  flood  from  the  burning  lake.  He 
cowered,  groaned  and  fled  away  to  his  room,  driven  be- 
fore the  dreadful  scourge  of  his  own  shame  and  the 
mockery  of  a  just  doom. 

Before  the  Archduke's  arrival,  Brigit  dressed  herself  in 
the  plainest  gown  she  possessed,  which  was  but  one  de- 
gree removed  from  a  nun's  habit.  Her  youthful  face 
showed  traces  of  horror  and  weeping,  but  otherwise  she 
was  calm,  the  mistress  of  all  her  faculties.  She  informed 
the  Count  de  Brie  that  her  husband  was  unable  to  leave 
his  room,  and  that  she  herself  would  render  the  excuses 
for  his  absence  to  the  Archduke. 

The  Count  was  astonished  at  the  firmness  she  used  in 
declining  to  discuss  the  events  of  the  preceding  night. 
When  he  ventured  to  remind  her  that  her  youth  and  in- 
experience were  such  that  she  would  be  well  advised  not 
to  meddle  in  a  matter  which  was  best  disposed  of  by  men, 
she  told  him  that  where  her  husband's  honor  was  in  ques- 
tion, she  could  remember  nothing  of  greater  moment  than 
the  fact  that  she  was  his  wife. 

Finding  her  deaf  to  all  argument,  he  left  the  Chateau 
with  two  other  gentlemen,  of  whom  Parflete  was  to  have 
been  one,  in  order  to  meet  the  Archduke  at  the  railway 
station.  The  guests  assembled  in  the  great  hall  to  wel- 
come him  on  his  arrival ;  Brigit  alone  remained  apart  in 
an  ante-chamber  till  she  was  summoned. 

An  hour  passed.  She  could  hear,  as  she  murmured  her 
prayers,  the  joy  bells  ringing  and  the  horses  prancing  in 
the  court-yard.  The  sound  of  footsteps  passing  and  re- 
passing in  the  corridor,  the  rustle  of  women's  silken  skirts, 
voices,  laughter,  hurried  words  of  command,  came  con- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  loi 

stantiy  to  her  ears,  but  no  one  entered  to  relieve  her  sus- 
pense. A  fear  of  missing  the  message  when  it  came, 
made  it  impossible  for  her  to  return  even  for  a  moment 
to  Parflete,  who,  she  knew,  was  suffering  unspeakable 
anguish  of  mind. 

Two  hours — three  hours — passed.  At  the  close  of  the 
fourth  hour  she  was  informed  by  her  host  that  His  Impe- 
rial Highness  would  see  her  in  the  private  apartments 
which  had  been  reserved  for  his  use  during  the  visit.  The 
Count  de  Brie  then  conducted  her  to  the  royal  rooms,  and 
she  was  received  on  the  threshold  by  a  young  oiificer  of 
supercilious  air,  who  was  in  attendance,  in  Parflete's  stead, 
on  the  Archduke. 

"  His  Imperial  Highness,"  said  he,  casting  his  full  eyes 
over  Brigit's  distressed  and  beautiful  face,  and  plain  serge 
crown — "His  Imperial  Highness  will  see  you  in  a  few 
moments." 

He  then  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  with  an 
air  which  was  intended  to  convey  equal  degrees  of  con- 
tempt, patronage  and  admiration,  lolled  back  against  some 
article  of  furniture.  Brigit  threw  him  a  glance  which 
called  some  color  into  his  face,  and  although  he  did  not 
change  his  attitude,  his  expression  lost  its  spirit  :  he 
clearly  felt  that  he  had  been  guilty  of  an  indiscretion. 

When  Brigit  was  finally  admitted  into  her  father's  pres- 
ence, she  saw,  standing  at  the  end  of  a  tapestried  room, 
a  tall,  imposing  individual,  with  large  strongly-marked 
features,  blonde  hair,  a  blonde  beard,  and  a  countenance 
of  corpse-like  pallor.  His  bearing  was  soldierly,  and  the 
impression  he  gave  was  that  of  a  cold,  tyrannical,  but  not 
malignant,  man. 

She  dropped  him  a  curtsey  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 
In  her  concern  for  her  husband  she  had  forgotten  that  the 
Archduke  had  known  her  mother,  or  that,  as  a  child,  she 
herself  had  played  at  the  princely  knees.     As  he  came 


102  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

forward  to  receive  her,  he  seemed  to  be  laboring  under 
some  inexplicable  emotion  ;  whether  it  was  anger  or  pity 
she  could  not  decide. 

"  Do  you  remember  me  ?  "  he  said. 

The  question  at  once  brought  the  past  to  her  mind. 

"Sir,"  she  said,  " it  would  not  be  for  me  to  speak  to 
your  Imperial  Highness  of  those  laughing  days." 

' '  Where  is  your  husband  ?  " 

"1  have  come,  sir,  to  explain  his  absence,  but  may  I 
beg  to  see  your  Imperial  Highness  alone?  " 

The  Archduke  made  a  motion  to  the  young  equerry, 
who,  with  a  very  ill  grace  and  a  look  of  astonishment, 
retired  from  the  room. 

"That  fellow  is  new  to  his  office,"  said  Brigit,  color- 
ing. ' '  He  should  be  taught  how  to  receive  women,  and 
he  may  yet  be  a  credit  to  his  Court." 

If  there  was  a  strong  trait  in  her  character,  it  was  im- 
periousness,  and  now,  under  the  immediate  and  exciting 
influence  of  the  being  from  whom  she  had  inherited  the 
quality,  it  gained  a  peculiar  force.  It  had  been  her  inten- 
tion to  plead,  and,  although  she  had  prepared  no  speech, 
and  had  trusted  to  the  occasion  and  the  help  of  God  for 
her  eloquence,  she  had  entered  the  Archduke's  presence 
with  the  firm  wish  to  exhibit  at  least  the  humble  spirit 
which  it  was  her  duty,  rather  than  her  pleasure,  to  feel. 
But  the  prince  found  himself  addressed  by  a  spirit  as 
intrepid  and  as  little  disposed  to  beg  for  quarter  as  his 
own.  Had  she  known  that  she  was  his  daughter,  her  re- 
ligious sense  of  the  reverence  due  to  parents  might  have 
kept  her  meek,  but  as  she  was  wholly  unaware  of  the 
relationship,  she  treated  him  M'ith  that  ironical  etiquette 
which  exists,  on  tormal  occasions,  between  equals. 

"My  husband,  sir,"  said  she,  "did  not  venture  into  his 
master's  presence,  because  he  is  held  to  be  in  disgrace, 
and  has  been  accused  of  cheating  at  cards.     I    am    his 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  loj 

wife,  and  your  Imperial  Highness  will  forgive  me  if  I  am 
too  proud  to  attempt  the  vindication  of  his  innocence.  It 
would  ill  become  me  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  one  whose 
honor  or  dishonor  must  be  as  my  own.  But  this,  per- 
haps, I  may  be  permitted  to  say  :  he  came  here  as  a 
guest.  He  had  every  reason  to  believe  himself  among 
friends.  They  played  a  trick  upon  him,  and,  from  the 
results  of  that  trick,  they  claim  to  have  found  him  guilty 
of  dishonesty.  But  to  have  played  that  trick  shows  that 
they  suspected  him ;  and  if  they  suspected  him,  why  did 
they  invite  him  here  to  join  in  all  their  games  ?  Does  a 
man  become  a  thief  in  one  night.'*  He  has  known  the 
Count  de  Brie  for  years,  yet  this  friend  appointed  a  man 
to  accuse  him  openly  before  a  room  full  of  acquaintances. 
He  found  himself  attacked  by  each  of  them  save  one,  and, 
when  they  were  all  calling  out  to  him,  the  host  himself 
joined  in  the  outcry.  I  think  it  an  indignity  offered, 
sir,  to  a  member  of  the  imperial  household,  a  member, 
too,  who  has  never  once  faltered  in  his  devotion  to  the 
Archduke,  who  is  the  most  loyal  and  affectionate  of  all 
his  servants.  It  would  be  an  act — not  of  mercy — but  of 
justice,  if  your  Imperial  Highness  would  show  resentment 
at  the  cruel  and  degrading  treatment  shown  to  a  gentle- 
man who,  toward  his  master  at  least,  has  never  been 
otherwise  than  faithful." 

Her  voice  faltered,  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
she  restrained  a  sob. 

"You  are  not  afraid,"  said  the  Archduke,  dryly,  "of 
speaking  your  mind." 

"My  father,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  was  an  officer  who  died 
fighting.      I  hope  I  do  him  no  discredit." 

A  ghastly  smile  drifted  across  the  Archduke's  rigid 
countenance.  He  turned  his  back  upon  her  and  paced 
the  room  before  he  made  a  further  remark. 

"What  do  you  wish  done.'  "  he  said  at  last. 


I04  1  HE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"I  wish  you,  sir,  to  defend  my  husband  against  his 
persecutors." 

"  What  is  he  to  you  .'*  "  said  he,  brutally.  "  He  is  years 
older  than  you  are,  and  you  cannot  care  for  him.  You 
cannot  believe  in  him  unless  you  are  a  fool  ;  and  if  you 
are  indeed  your  father's  daughter,  you  cannot  be  a  sim- 
pleton. The  man  is  guilty.  It  is  impossible  to  doubt  the 
evidence  against  him.  I  will  have  no  proved  blacklegs 
in  my  service  ;  no,  not  even  to  please  the  child  of  my 
charming  and  beautiful  friend — Henriette  Duboc.  De  Brie 
has  no  wish  to  persecute  your  husband.  It  would  be  a 
revolting  scandal,  and  the  affair  must  be  hushed  up. 
Parflete  had  better  get  out  of  the  country  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible, but  tell  him  that  I  do  not  wish  you  to  accompany 
him.  He  will  be  hounded  from  place  to  place  like  a  rat, 
and  I  do  not  choose  that  any  woman  should  share  in  his 
existence." 

' '  My  duty,  sir,"  said  Brigit,  ' '  is  in  the  hands  of  a  higher 
authority  than  a  prince's.      I  shall  follow  my  husband." 

"  You  shall  do  what  you  are  told  to  do,"  said  the  Arch- 
duke. •' I  never  wish  to  see  Parflete  again.  You  may 
tell  him  that  if  he  attempts  to  address  m.e,  or  hold  any 
communication  with  me,  I  shall  take  my  own  method  o'f 
dealing  with  the  offence.  As  for  you,  you  have  forced 
me  to  seem  more  severe  than  my  intention.  I  will  find 
some  appointment  for  you  at  the  Court.  At  your  age,  and 
with  your  appearance,  and  with  your  audacity,  you  will 
need  more  than  any  common  surveillance  !  I  shall  see 
that  you  are  protected  and  provided  for." 

"  Sir,"  said  Brigit,  "I  thank  you — but  I  am  no  beggar, 
and  if  my  husband's  debts  are  greater  than  his  own  fort- 
une, I  have  my  own  dot  left  me  by  my  father." 

"  He  seems,"  said  the  Archduke,  with  a  strange  smile, 
"  to  have  been  a  remarkable  person.  Do  you  remember 
him  ? " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  105 

"No,  sir,"'  said  Brigit ;  "but  my  mother  told  me  of 
him  often.  He  was  brave  :  he  was  always  kind  to 
women,  and  he  feared  no  man  in  the  world." 

"And  did  your  mother  love  him.?"  said  the  Archduke. 

"They  say,  sir,"  replied  Brigit,  "that  she  died  because 
life  was  too  desolate  without  him." 

"Would  you  die  so  easily.?"  said  the  Archduke,  "if 
you  found  yourself  separated  from  Parflete  ?  " 

Brigits  face  flushed  at  a  question  which  cut  her  sensi- 
tive nature  to  the  quick. 

"My  father,  sir,"  said  she,  "was  perhaps  too  proud  a 
man  to  have  suffered  insolence  even  from  an  Archduke. 
If  my  husband  has  ever  suffered  it,  my  lot  could  not  be 
so  hard  as  my  mother's  when  she  lost  not  her  protector 
only  but  mine  !  " 

"Well  turned!"  said  the  Archduke.  "Well  turned! 
I  shall  not  forget  you.  It  would  be  unpleasant  for  you  to 
remain  here  when  your  husband  has  left.  I  will  see  that 
you  travel  under  a  proper  escort  to  Alberia.  For  the 
present,  you  may  go,  but  au  revoir.  If  you  think  me 
harsh,  a  day  may  come,  when  you  are  older,  when  you 
will  see  my  judgment  in  another  light.  You  had  best 
make  your  preparations  to  leave  the  Chateau  to-night.  I 
will  send  passports  and  further  instructions  to  you  by 
Captain  Kaste. " 

"Sir,"  said  Brigit,  "I  cannot  promise  to  obey  them. 
My  duty  is  toward  my  husband." 

"  Your  husband,"  said  the  Archduke,  grimly,  "will  not 
venture  to  express  a  wish  in  this  matter  contrary  to  my 
own.     Now  you  may  go." 

Brigit  made  a  profound  bow  and  went  out  of  the  room. 
The  Archduke  looked  after  her  and  sat  for  a  long  time  in 
silence,  biting  his  nails,  then  he  rang  for  his  equerry. 

"Where  is  Parflete  by  this  time?"  he  asked. 

"He  should  be  beyond  Paris,  sir,"  replied  the  young 


io6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

man,  with  a  grin  which  he  made  but  a  feigned  effort  to 
conceal. 

"  Where  is  De  Brie  ? "  asked  the  Archduke. 

"  He  is  waiting  in  the  next  room." 

"Show  him  in." 

Captain  Kaste  withdrew  and  presently  returned  with 
the  Count 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  107 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Count  de  Brie,  it  may  be  remembered,  had  been 
one  of  the  three  guests  who  took  supper  with  Madame 
Duboc  and  the  Archduke  at  Les  Papillons  on  Brigit's  sixth 
birthday.  He  was  a  person  who  had  moved  in  the  four 
quarters  of  the  moon  and  practised  vanity  in  each.  A 
member  of  the  old  nobility,  he  had  received  his  early 
political  training  under  the  leadership  of  the  Due  de 
Broglie,  but,  as  he  possessed  all  the  arrogance  without 
the  ability  of  his  pattern,  he  had  not  the  honor  of  being 
reckoned  among  the  beaten  when  that  Minister  and  his 
party  fell  from  power  in  1835.  As  a  youth,  De  Brie  had 
contributed  several  articles  to  L'Avenir,  but,  in  1833,  we 
find  him  on  the  side  of  Montalembert  in  the  rupture  with 
Lamennais.*  He  was  among  those  who  listened  to 
Lacordaire's  famous  Conferences  de  Notre-Dame ,  and  he 
figured  for  a  time  as  a  mystic.  But  this  formal  religion, 
which  deceived  himself  rather  than  on-lookers,  was  bal- 
anced by  an  equally  frigid  system  of  worldliness.  His 
intrigues  were  as  studied  as  his  piety,  and  the  same 
spirit  which  urged  him  to  seem  more  devout  than  he  felt, 
induced  him  to  affect  habits  of  dissipation  wholly  at  vari- 
ance with  his  natural  instincts.  Of  a  cold,  calculating 
and  rather  morbid  temperament,  he  chose  companions  of 
a   precisely  opposite    character,   and  by  figuring  on   the 

*  For  a  brief,  yet  vivid,  account  of  the  fall  of  De  Lamennais,  the 
reader  may  be  referred  to  the  article  on  the  subject  in  Cardinal  New- 
man's Essays:  Critical  and  Historical.     Vol.  i.,  page  138. 


io8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

scene  of  their  adventures  he  sought  to  share  a  little  in 
their  reputation  for  gallantry. 

He  was,  however,  one  who  kept  strictly  faithful  to 
those  maxims  of  prudence,  which,  in  many  characters, 
are  a  substitute  for  principle.  Convictions  he  had  none, 
but  rules  of  conduct  he  had  in  plenty,  and  to  break  one 
of  these  seemed  to  him  a  demonstration  either  of  forget- 
fulness  or  ignorance.  He  would  have  recoiled  from  using 
a  harder  term.  Among  these  rules  the  following  were 
especially  important :  — 

' '  Lying  is  had  policy. " 

"  To  desert  a  wotnan  enlists  unpopularity." 

"Be  true  to  some  wotnaji  and  you  will  gain  credit  from 
all  men. " 

"  To  cheat  at  cards  is  the  last  possible  mistake.'' 

It  may  be  granted,  then,  that  he  had,  on  the  whole,  a 
taste  for  what  is  commonly  known  as  honor,  and  also  a 
nice  perception  that  this  earth — if  it  is  to  be  conquered — 
can  be  conquered  by  fair  means  only.  His  annoyance 
at  Parflete's  disgrace  was  so  deep  that  it  almost  reached 
sorrow.  He  disliked  the  man  and  he  had  long  expected 
to  hear  of  his  downfall. 

"Lion-tamers,  snake-charmers,  and  royal  favorites  all 
come  to  sudden  disaster,"  was  another  of  his  axioms. 
Still,  he  would  have  preferred  that  the  last  scene  in  Par- 
flete's social  career  had  been  acted  elsewhere  than  at  the 
Chateau  de  Vieuville.  As  he  now  approached  the  Arch- 
duke, the  melancholy  droop  of  his  eyelids  and  mouth 
seemed  more  marked  than  usual.  Apart  from  his  per- 
sonal feeling  in  the  matter,  he  had  too  much  breeding  to 
appear  otherwise  than  distressed  at  the  calamity  which 
had  befallen  his  royal  visitor's  equerry. 

"What  has  been  done  ?  "  asked  the  Archduke.  "  Who 
will  break  the  news  to — Brigit  ?  " 

"It  will  be  a  delicate  mission,"  said  De  Brie.      "Her 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  109 

courage  is  extraordinary,  and  I  fear  she  may  give  trouble. 
We  might  tell  her  that  she  is  to  join  him — and  gradually 
prepare  her  mind  for  the — disappointment." 

The  Archduke  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  ordered  Kaste  to  leave  the  room. 

"  It  might  be  best,  after  all,  to  let  her  know  the  whole 
truth,"  said  Charles.  "  I  am  not  ashamed  of  her.  I  wish 
that  my  son  had  even  half  her  spirit  !  She  might  be  more 
obedient  if  she  were  told  everything." 

"  Sir,  I  could  offer  no  advice  on  that  point.  Mon  Dieu  ! 
is  it  conceivable  that  a  man  so  bound  as  Parfiete  was  to 
consider  his  reputation  and  guard  his  character — "  He 
could  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  lifted  up  his  hands  in 
token  of  an  amazement  beyond  speech. 

"  Did  he  give  much  trouble  .'*  " 

"  Happily  he  was  reasonable.  I  found  him  waiting 
in  his  bedroom  for  his  wife's  return.  I  explained  that  she 
had  not  yet  seen  you  :  that  you  intended  to  receive  her, 
but  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  you  to  grant  the  requests 
which  she  might  make.  I  then  informed  him  of  your 
Imperial  Highness's  irrevocable  decision.  First" — and  he 
checked  each  remark  on  his  fingers — "  that  he  was  to  con- 
sider himself  banished  from  Alberia  and  from  your  circle, — 
partout :  that  he  was  to  make  no  appeals  to  your  friends  ; 
that  he  was  to  separate  himself  from  Madame — your 
natural  daughter." 

"What  did  he  say  to  that .?  " 

"I  regret  to  say  that  he  permitted  himself  a  remark 
about  the  morganatic  marriage." 

"Was  it  a  threat.?" 

De  Brie  mouthed  a  little  over  his  reply, — 

''A  peu  prh.  He  was,  perhaps,  over-excited.  His  de- 
votion to  your  Imperial  Highness  is,  I  think,  sincere.  I 
pointed  out  that  Madame  Parfiete  was  dear  to  the  Archduke 
and  that  he   could  not  bear  to  see  her  participate  in   a 


no  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ruined  life.  I  said  much  to  the  same  effect,  and,  ulti- 
mately, he  accepted  the  terms.  He  had,  after  all,  no 
choice.  I  thought  it  but  kind  to  indulge  him  in  the  little 
farce  of  consideration.  He  has  left  a  letter  for  Madame 
Parflete. " 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Here,  sir." 

"You  may  show  it  to  her.  He  would  not  dare  to  dis- 
obey me.     Did  you  give  him  the  money  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.      He  desired  his  humble  thanks — " 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  Archduke,  impatiently. 
"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more.  He  took  it  and  he  was 
satisfied.  He  has  a  price  for  everything — but  his  wife 
seems  the  least  precious  of  his  treasures  !  We  princes 
surely  see  the  meanest  vices  of  mankind  !  It  is  difficult, 
indeed,  for  a  king  to  find  a  creature  he  can  either  trust  or 
respect.     As  a  boy,  I  heard  that  often  from  my  father." 

At  that  moment,  they  were  both  startled  by  the  sound 
of  voices  in  the  adjoining  room.  The  Archduke  rang  his 
bell,  and  Captain  Kaste  entered. 

"  Madame  Parflete  has  come  back,  sir, "  saidhe.  "She 
desires  to  see  your  Imperial  Highness." 

He  put  a  sarcastic  stress  on  the  word  desires,  as  though 
he  wished  the  Archduke  to  understand  that  he  was  deliver- 
ing the  message  in  all  its  original  informality. 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Charles.  "Tell  her  that  I 
am  resting  after  my  journey.  If  she  can  receive  the  Count 
de  Brie,  he  will  wait  upon  her  in  her  own  apartments." 

But,  as  he  spoke,  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  room  was 
opened,  and  Brigit  herself,  unannounced,  confronted  the 
three  men. 

She  pressed  one  hand  to  her  throat  as  though  to  hold 
back  the  sob  of  despair  which  rose,  stronger  than  words, 
to  her  trembling  lips. 

"Sir,"  she  said,    Math  a  deep  curtsey,    "  if  I  have  no 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  m 

manners,  you  must  pardon  me.  I  am  treated  as  though 
I  were  a  slave  without  rights  and  without  a  soul,  whereas 
I  am  not  even  your  subject.  I  am  a  Frenchwoman,  and 
I  ask  by  what  authority  you  step  between  myself  and  my 
husband?  Where  have  they  taken  him,  and  who  is  the 
Count  de  Brie  that  he  may  imprison  and  insult  gentlemen 
at  his  caprice  ?  " 

"Madame,"  said  De  Brie,  coming  forward,  "if  you 
will  allow  me  to  explain — " 

"  A  crime  cannot  be  explained,"  saidBrigit;  "nor  will 
I  trespass  upon  your  time,  nor  will  I  take  you  from  your 
guest.     I  ask  to  see  my  husband  only." 

"Give  her  his  letter,"  said  the  Archduke,  who  was 
watching  her  from  under  his  deeply-lined  and  heavy  eye- 
lids.     "Give  her  his  note  and  leave  her  with  me." 

De  Brie  handed  the  half-fainting  girl  her  husband's  fare- 
well letter,  which  was  sealed  very  neatly  with  the  Par- 
flete  crest,  and  addressed  "  For  my  Wife  "  in  his  familiar, 
graceful  handwriting.  She  walked  away  to  the  window, 
where  they  could  no  longer  watch  her  face,  and  then  tore 
the  envelope  open.  The  page  trembled  in  her  hands. 
She  could  scarcely  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  few  lines 
which  met  her  eyes. 

"  My  dearest, — Never  forget  me.  It  was  a  conspiracy.  But 
I  will  not  make  you  more  wretciied  than  you  must  be.  The 
Archduke  is  right  in  his  decision.  Remember  his  position. 
He  could  not  act  otherwise.  He  could  not  encourage  any 
system  of  cross-questioning.  I  do  not  complain.  I  may  never 
see  you  again.  It  would  not  be  fair.  I  may  not  ask  you  to  share 
such  misery  as  mine  must  be.  They  will  treat  me  as  though  I 
were  a  leper.  I  know  them.  Pray  for  me  and  think  of  me 
always,  and,  should  we  ever  meet,  never  let  me  read  reproach 
in  your  eyes.     Your  devoted  and  heart-broken  husband." 

"  Oh,  he  wrote  this  !  "  exclaimed  Brigit.    "  He  wrote  it  !  " 

The  man's  nature  cried  out  in  every  phrase.     She  would 

have  fallen  if  the  Archduke,  in  his  experience,   had  not 


112  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

risen  from  his  chair  and  stationed  himself  so  near  to  her 
that  he  could,  at  the  critical  moment,  offer  her  his  sup- 
port. 

Her  grief  was  unconquerable.  She  broke  down  utterly, 
and,  sinking  to  the  ground,  buried  her  face  in  her  two 
hands,  weeping  tears  of  bitter  humiliation.  The  Arch- 
duke could  only  hear  the  words, — 

"I  cannot — cannot — I  cannot  !  " 

He  walked  away,  surveyed  her  from  a  distance,  and 
came  back  again  to  put  his  hand  on  her  bowed  head. 

"  Calme-toi,  ?no7i  en/ani,"  he  said  at  last,  ^' releve-toi  el 
icoute  !  Ce  71  est  pas  convenable.  It  is  ungrateful.  We 
have  done  the  best  for  your  husband.  These  things  are 
hard,  but  we  must  submit  to  them.  I  am  always  sorry 
for  wives.  The  whole  world  pities  them.  There  was 
never  such  a  black  scoundrel  but  some  woman  would 
break  her  heart  and  wring  ours  by  begging  mercy  for  him. 
We  think  that  your  husband's  chief  crime  is  his  offence 
against  you.  We  allowed  him  to  marry  you  because  of 
our  high  regard  for  him.  He  has  deceived  and  betrayed 
us  all.  He  is  a  vile  fellow.  Shed  no  more  tears.  You 
are  too  young  to  cry. " 

"  Young  !  "  said  Brigit.  "  I  was  young  six  weeks  ago, 
but  not  now.  1  am  old — old — old — and  I  thought  I  should 
be  so  happy.  I  had  so  many  friends.  Friends  every- 
where— everywhere  friends !  Now,  not  a  soul.  And 
what  have  I  done  to  deserve  this  .''  I  only  wanted  to  do 
right.  You  are  all  nothing  to  me — nothing.  My  husband 
is  suffering.  Sorrow  will  not  make  him  a  better  man,  but 
a  desperate  one.  O  God  !  to  whom  shall  I  turn  but  to 
Thee  ?  1  have  neither  father,  nor  brother,  nor  husband — 
and  my  mother  is  dead.  O  God  !  take  me  away.  I  am 
afraid  !  " 

Charles  again  walked  away  from  her  to  the  end  of  the 
room,  where  his  chair  and  writing-table  stood. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  113 

"I  thought  you  were  brave,"  said  he. 

"I  was  once,"  said  Brigit,  holding  her  paints  to  her 
aching  eyes.  "But  you  are  all  men,  you  are  strong  and 
cruel  ;  and  I  am  alone,  and  I  see  what  is  coming — dis- 
aster and  ruin." 

"You  need  not  lose  your  courage,"  said  the  Archduke. 
"  Your  father  has,  perhaps,  more  power  than  you  dream 
of." 

"But  he  is  dead,"  sobbed  Brigit,  "  and  the  dead  cannot 
help  me." 

"Wait,"  said  the  Archduke,  "wait!  Your  father  is 
living.     But  would  you  know  him  if  you  saw  him  ?  " 

Brigit  looked  up,  with  something  of  suspicion,  at  his 
face.  She  was  still  crouching  on  the  ground ;  bowed 
down  to  the  earth  with  the  weight  of  grief,  too  heavy  for 
youth  to  bear. 

"Would  I  know  him  ?  "  she  replied  slowly.  "  He  was 
noble,  my  mother  said,  and  as  handsome  as  the  sun-god, 
and  always  kind  to  women,  and  he  feared  no  man  in  the 
world.     And  she  said  that  his  eyes  were  like  agate — " 

There  she  stopped  short.  The  moment  of  recognition 
was  near — a  recognition  in  violent  contradiction  with  the 
sentimental  evidence  which  had  grown  up  and  flowered 
in  the  girl's  mind  from  the  hour  of  her  first  remembrance. 
The  Archduke  himself  was  moved.  Their  glance  met. 
Trembling,  Brigit  rose  to  her  feet  and  walked  slowly,  as 
though  she  were  drawn  toward  him  by  some  irresistible, 
but  torturing,  influence.  Her  lips  were  parted  as  if  in 
terror,  her  gaze  was  fixed  and  panic-stricken,  yet  she  ap- 
proached nearer  and  nearer  till  they  stood  with  the  table 
only  between  them. 

"  Brigit,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  two  hands.  "  I  am 
not  the  sun-god,  nor  have  I  died  fighting,  nor  have  I 
been  always  kind  to  women,  if  I  may  believe  all  they  havtj 
said  to  me — but — I  am  your  father," 


114  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Brigit  colored  as  though  she  had  received  a  whip  stroke 
on  each  cheek. 

"But  my  mother,"  she  answered,  "was  good,"  and  she 
shrank  away. 

"  Elle  etait  belle  et  douce." 

"She  was  more,"  cried  Brigit,  passionately,  "she  was 
good.    They  told  me  so  at  the  Convent,  and  I  know  it" 

^'  Tu  as  raison,"  rejoined  the  Archduke.  "  She  was  vir- 
tuous to  a  fault ;  but,  nevertheless,  I  am  your  father." 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  said  the  poor  girl,  bursting  into 
tears.  "  But  I  pray  that  God  may  bless  you  and  help  me 
to  honor  you.  At  present  He  seems  to  have  forsaken 
me,  for  every  one  now  tells  me  lies,  and  everything  I  once 
believed  in  is  now  proved  false.  I  pray  God  that  this  is 
all  a  dream  and  I  may  soon  wake  up." 

The  Archduke  went  round  to  her,  bent  down  and  kissed 
her  forehead. 

"  Your  mother  was  good,"  he  said,  "  and  a  priest  mar- 
ried us.  But  princes  may  not  love  whom  they  will,  and 
the  Church's  law  is  not  always  the  law  of  the  State.  Tu 
es  ma  fille.  Je  t'aime  bien,  mais  tu  n  as  pas  de  droits.  II 
faut  que  tu  saches  ces  choses  Ih.  II  faut  que  tu  restes 
conime  tu  es  aux  jyeux  du  monde — la  fille  du  Capitaine 
Diihoc.  It  is  a  secret  which  you  must  keep  for  my  sake. 
You  must  not  boast  of  me. " 

A  white  smile  passed  over  Brigit's  face. 

"I  was  proud,"  she  said,  sadly,  "  of  my  father,  the  poor 
officer  who  died  fighting  ;  but  I  shall  never  boast  again. 
You  may  trust  me  well." 

"You  will  see  now,"  he  said,  not  feeling  her  irony, 
"  why  I  cannot  allow  you  to  follow  Parflete.  I  permitted 
the  marriage  because  he  was  your  guardian,  and  he  never 
told  me  that  you  had  so  much  beauty.  He  knew  your 
mother,  and  I  felt  that  I  could  trust  him.  But  now  trust 
is  out  of  the  question.     If  you  are  patient,  we  may  be 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  115 

able  to  arrange  a  divorce,  and  I  will  find  you  another 
husband — a  young  one — a  handsome  one — perhaps  a 
nobleman.     Shed  no  more  tears." 

Brigit  received  this  speech  with  profound  resentment. 

"As  I  am  not  a  princess,"  she  said,  "and  as  I  have  no 
rights,  I  may  remain  true  to  my  marriage  vows.  The 
word  divorce  has  no  meaning  for  me.  I  am  a  Catholic. 
I  implore  you  to  let  me  go.  I  have  heard  too  much  to- 
day, and  my  heart  can  bear  no  more." 

He  followed  her  to  the  door  and,  at  parting,  stooped 
down  and  kissed  her  forehead  again.  She  curtseyed, 
kissed  his  hand,  then,  turning  away,  was  seized  with 
another  fit  of  crying,  and  rushed,  like  a  frightened  child, 
to  the  one  refuge  left  her — the  little  altar  with  the  lamp 
hanging  before  it,  which  she  had  arranged  in  an  alcove  of 
her  bedroom. 

But  neither  prayers  nor  tears  were  left  in  Brigit.  Her 
head  swam  and  her  knees  bent  beneath  her.  She  had 
tasted  no  food  since  her  first  light  meal  in  the  morning, 
and  her  bodily  frame — in  spite  of  her  perfect  health — was 
still  too  immature  to  bear — without  some  special  grace — 
so  prolonged  a  strain  as  she  had  suffered.  It  was  not, 
however,  the  moment  for  rest  or  hesitation.  Hev  one 
desire  was  to  escape  from  that  perilous  household  l-efore 
the  Archduke  could  take  steps  to  hinder  her  going,  or  to 
direct  her  future  destiny.  A  dreadful  fear  paralyzed  her 
heart  and  benumbed  every  other  emotion.  She  distrusted 
her  own  shadow,  and  the  stirring  of  the  leaves  on  the 
trees  outside  her  window  seemed  the  iron  whispers  of 
armed  men.  The  place  of  retreat  to  which  her  mind 
turned  by  the  united  force  of  affection  and  instinct  was 
the  Convent  at  Tours.  There,  undoubtedly,  Parflete 
would  write,  either  to  give  some  account  of  his  own 
movements,  or  to  ask  for  tidings  of  Brigit  herself.  It 
was   even  probable   that,  on    leaving   Fontainebleau,  he 


ii6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

would  at  once  place  himself  in  communication  nith  the 
Reverend  Mother,  who,  he  knew,  was  kindly  disposed 
toward  him,  and  a  woman  of  great  good  sense.  Thus 
the  girl  reasoned.  She  would  walk  to  Paris — for  she  felt 
it  would  be  imprudent  to  venture  into  the  railway  station, 
where  she  could  not  hope  to  pass  unrecognized.  The 
Archduke  was  too  worldly-minded  a  man  to  suspect  her  of 
fl3'ing  to  the  Nuns,  and,  once  in  Paris  and  on  her  way  to 
Tours,  she  felt  certain  that  she  could  defy  his  vigilance. 
She  examined  the  situation  of  her  room.  The  Chateau 
de  Vieuville,  which  faced  a  superb  avenue,  one  mile  and 
a  half  in  length,  stood  in  a  park,  set  out  in  the  English 
taste,  and  crossed  by  a  large  artificial  lake  of  serpentine 
form.  Brigit's  apartments  were  in  a  pavilion  which 
formed  the  right  wing  of  the  Castle,  and  the  saloons  on 
the  first  floor  were  shaded  by  a  modern  glass  roof  sup- 
ported on  marble  pillars.  These  lower  rooms,  she  re- 
membered, were  used  in  the  morning  only.  They  were 
never  occupied  after  midday.  It  would  have  been  just 
possible  to  climb  along  the  ledge  until  she  reached  the 
dome  above  the  servants'  staircase.  The  descent  from 
thence  to  the  ground  looked  like  a  matter  of  mere  daring 
and  a  sure  foot.  But,  after  a  moment's  consideration, 
she  decided  that  the  better,  if  more  audacious,  course 
was  to  brave  the  dangers  of  the  hall  and  corridors,  and 
walk  out  as  though  she  intended  to  stroll  in  the  park. 
She  was  a  free  woman,  having  wronged  no  one,  and  she 
was  her  own  mistress.  She  sought  for  her  jewels,  and 
found  that  her  mother's  pearl  rosary,  diamond  necklace, 
bracelets  and  brooches  were  gone.  Parflete  alone  knew 
where  they  were  kept.  Had  he  taken  them  ?  She  hoped 
so.  He  would  need  money  for  his  flight.  She  had  but 
two  hundred  francs  in  her  purse,  and  the  few  rings — fort- 
unately valuable  ones — which  she  happened  to  be  wear- 
ing on   her  fingers.     These  she   tied  up   in   her  pocket- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  117 

handkerchief  and  thrust  it,  with  lier  money,  into  the 
bosom  of  her  gown.  She  put  on  her  garden  hat,  a 
light  wrap,  and,  with  trembling  limbs,  opened  her  door. 
There  was  no  one  in  sight  save  the  Duchess  of  Parma's 
femme  de  chamhre,  who  was  dozing  on  a  chair,  by 
a  sleeping  poodle,  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  long  corri- 
dor. The  poodle  moved  at  the  sound  of  Brigit's  light 
step.  He  barked  inarticulately,  and  did  not  so  much  as 
wake  himself.  She  reached  the  top  of  the  grand  stair- 
case and  looked  down.  There  were  four  lacqueys  in  the 
hall.  She  opened  the  Breviary  which  she  carried  in  her 
hand,  and,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  it,  descended  the 
stairs  very  slowly,  passed  the  servants  without  appearing 
to  notice  them,  and  found  herself  in  the  courtyard.  Two 
of  the  guests  were  there — Charles  Aumerle  and  the  young 
Marquis  of  Chaumont.  She  kept  her  gaze  intently  on 
her  book,  and,  although  they  uncovered  their  heads, 
they  did  not  attempt  to  address  her.  Presently,  her  feet 
seemed  to  touch  a  gravel  path — she  was  on  the  great 
avenue.  How  her  heart  throbbed  !  She  still  continued 
reading.  Aumerle  looked  after  her  till  her  slight,  child- 
ish figure  was  lost  among  the  trees. 

"These  convent  habits  stick,"  he  observed    at    last. 
"She  is  saying  her  prayers  !  " 

Brigit  walked  on  and  on  not  daring  to  lift  her  eyes. 
"  Our  Father  in  Heaven,  help  me  !  Help  me,  Our  Father 
in  Heaven  !  "  she  cried  in  her  soul.  But  how  long  it  was 
before  she  reached  the  common  highway  !  She  dared 
not  look  back  at  the  great  iron  gates  of  the  Chateau,  and 
the  smile  which  she  gave  to  the  concierge's  pale  daughter 
was  the  last  that  reddened  her  lips  for  many  a  long  day. 
She  trudged  on  till  the  evening,  when  she  bought  some 
food,  for  she  was  on  the  road  to  Paris  and  needed  all  her 
strength.  All  that  night,  taking  strength  from  God  and 
her  own  despair,  she  kept  on  the  road,  always  looking 


ii8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

for  the  lights  of  the  city,  and  meeting  neither  insults  nor 
adventures.  But  she  was  afraid  of  the  blackness  ;  and 
Psyche,  journeying  through  the  way  of  death,  past  the 
castle  of  Orcus,  and  the  river  of  the  dead,  toward  the 
house  of  Proserpine,  did  not  suffer  more  piteously  than 
Brigit  during  that  lonely  march.  The  sky  was  sombre, 
and,  when  the  wind  in  a  sudden  gust  drove  the  clouds 
from  the  face  of  the  moon,  it  shone  out  with  an  opales- 
cent light  that  gave  the  very  atmosphere  the  color  of 
tears.  The  remembrance  of  all  that  Robert  Orange  had 
told  her  of  his  walk  from  Brittany  cheered  her  a 
little  when  sharp  flints  pierced  her  thin  shoes,  or  a  frog, 
hopping  across  the  path,  made  her  fear  the  presence  of 
some  evil  spirit.  She  never  once  glanced  behind  her, 
for  the  steps  and  voices  of  pursuers — either  men  or  devils 
— seemed  ever  in  her  ears.  She  felt  the  clutch  of  invis- 
ible hands  on  her  shawl,  and,  from  time  to  time,  a  fiery 
touch  on  her  shoulder.  The  Prince  of  the  Power  of  Dark- 
ness was  surely  near.  Yet  she  sped  on  and  on,  now  sob- 
bing from  sheer  exhaustion,  now  exhorting  her  weary 
heart  with  the  good  words  she  had  been  taught : — 

"  If  Thou  wilt  have  me  to  be  in  darkness,  be  Thou  Blessed  ; 
and  if  Thou  wilt  have  me  to  be  in  light,  Blessed  be  Thou  again. 
If  Thou  vouchsafest  to  comfort  me,  be  Thou  Blessed  ;  and  if  it 
be  Thy  will  that  I  should  be  afflicted,  be  Thou  always  equally 
Blessed.  Keep  me  from  all  sin,  and  I  will  fear  neither  death 
nor  hell.  So  only  Thou  cast  me  not  off  forever,  nor  blot  me 
out  of  the  book  of  life,  no  tribulation  that  befalls  me  will  hurt 
me." 


BOOK    II. 


CHAPTER    I. 

Some  ten  days  after  Brigit's  flight  from  the  Chateau  de 
Vieuville,  Orange  was  at  work  among  his  books,  wonder- 
ing which  volumes  he  could  sell  with  the  least  sorrow — 
the  necessary  sum  for  his  election  expenses  still  lacked 
two  hundred  pounds — when  he  found  the  old  copy  of  Le 
Morte  d'  Arthur  which  had  belonged  to  his  mother,  and 
which,  as  a  boy,  he  had  learned  by  heart.  The  passages 
which  told  of  the  life  and  death  of  Launcelot  had  been 
lined  and  underlined  in  red  and  purple  and  black  inks, 
till  the  original  print  was  wholly  obscured,  and  Robert 
found  himself  repeating  the  text  from  memory,  although 
he  had  not  seen  it  nor  thought  of  it  for  a  long  time.  He 
reached  the  last  words  of  Launcelot  to  the  Queen : — 

"  And  therefore,  lady,  sithen  ye  have  taken  to  perfection, 
I  must  needs  take  me  to  perfection  ot  right.  For  I  take  record 
of  God,  in  you  I  have  had  mine  earthly  joy.  And  if  I  had  found 
you  now  so  disposed,  I  had  cast  me  to  have  had  you  into  mine 
own  realm.  But  sithen  I  find  you  so  disposed,  I  ensure  you 
faithfully,  I  will  ever  take  me  to  penance.  .  .  .  Wherefore, 
madam,  I  pray  you  kiss  me  and  never  no  more." 

He   felt   that   he   himself  was   uttering   some  solemn 

promise,    that  his  existence  could  not  again  be  what  it 

had  been  during  the  last  ten  years.      He  made  no  attempt 

to  disguise  the  cause  of  this  change.     Where  women  were 

119 


120  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

concerned  he  had  always  been  deeply  impressionable. 
Madame  Bertin  and  the  old  lace-maker,  and  Henriette 
Duboc  were  but  the  forerunners — each  in  her  own  way  : 
— the  first  as  a  Guardian,  the  second  as  a  Witch,  the  third 
as  a  Mistress — of  a  long  series  of  feminine  influences 
similar  in  kind  which  permeated,  while  they  never  ruled, 
his  life.  It  was  hard,  indeed,  for  Robert  to  find  a  woman, 
no  matter  what  her  age  or  history  or  temper,  in  whom  he 
cou,ld  not  discover  some  point  of  attraction — some  hal- 
lowing goodness.  But  he  had  never  truly  loved  in  the 
perfect  sense  any  one  of  his  numerous  idols,  and  he  was, 
in  this  respect,  as  a  man  convinced  in  matters  of  doctrine, 
yet  lacking  spiritual  fervor.  Robert  would  have  faced 
death  willingly  for  several  ladies  ;  such  was  his  intel- 
lectual admiration  for  their  graces  of  character,  and  his 
passionate  appreciation  of  their  excellent  beauty,  but  he 
had  never  met  one  who  made  him  eager  to  live.  His 
boyish  ideal  of  eternal  fidelity  to  one  love  had,  under  the 
stress  of  material  facts  and  civil  laws,  become  an  ac- 
knowledged illusion — fair,  but  impossible.  A  society 
which  has  admitted  "  that  there  be  no  causes  to  die  for," 
is  not  a  society  which  produces  women  whom  men  can 
passionately  worship  forever.  This,  at  least,  was  his 
arid  belief  when  he  met  Brigit,  for  the  first  time,  at 
Chambord.  Then  he  learned  that  there  was  still  an  in- 
fluence on  this  earth  which  neither  doctrines  of  vanity, 
nor  the  pride  of  life,  could  mar.  And,  whereas  other  in- 
fluences, made  for  restlessness,  dissatisfaction,  a  sort  of 
shame,  and  certainly  much  folly,  this,  on  the  contrary, 
brought  strength  and  a  sense  of  heirship  to  the  peace  of 
God.  He  obtained,  too,  his  first  clear  and  untroubled 
vision  of  Time.  He  saw  that,  of  a  truth,  a  thousand 
years  were  as  one  day,  and  one  day  was  as  a  thousand 
years — not  in  God's  sight  onlj'-,  but  in  that  School  for 
Saints  which  has  been  often  called  the  way  of  the  world. 


THE  SClIonr.  FOR  SAIXTS.  I2t 

We  read  in  his  Journal  that  he  was  thinking  thus  of 
eternity  and  immortality,  and  dreaming  of  love  and  sad- 
ness {f'e  so7igeais  d'amour  et  de  tn's/esse),  when  he  was 
given  a  letter,  written  in  a  hand  which  he  feared  to  rec- 
ognize— so  painful  was  the  happiness  he  felt  in  seeing  it 
once  more.  It  was  addressed  from  a  Convent  in  London, 
and  it  contained  these  words  : — 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble,  and  1  think  you  can  help  me — for  you 
are  kind  and  you  understand.  Do  you  remember  me  ?  My 
name  is  Brigit  Parflete.  We  met  first  at  Chambord,  where  we 
read  together  those  two  verses  which  Frangois  I.  wrote  on  the 
window-pane  of  his  room, — 

'  Souvent  femme  varie 
Mai  habil  qui  s'y  fie.' 

Then  we  saw  each  other  again  in  Paris,  and  you  told  me  of  your 
kingdom  under  the  sea,  and  f  told  you  how  my  mother  died. 
In  the  evening  we  all  went  to  Les  Papillons.  Oh  !  I  know  that 
you  have  not  forgotten  us.  I  have  written  all  these  other  things 
in  order  to  fill  up  the  page,  because  three  lines  look  hurried, 
whereas,  for  six  days,  I  have  been  wondering  what  I  should  say 
to  you.  I  do  not  know  how  to  address  you,  and  now  I  do  not 
know  how  to  explain  myself     But  I  am  in  great  trouble." 

She  wrote  in  French,  and  of  all  modern  languages 
it  is  the  one  for  which  English,  with  all  its  richness  and 
strength,  has  no  equivalent  expression.  The  translation 
of  Brigit's  letter  can  give  no  notion  of  its  grace,  but  the 
sense  at  least  is  faithful ;  and,  with  that  sense  before  us, 
we  may  discern  also  her  character,  which  was  a  blend- 
ing of  shyness  and  independence,  of  inexperience  and 
womanly  instinct,  of  candor  and  discretion. 

The  news  of  Parflete's  disgrace  had  not  yet  reached  his 
few  acquaintances  in  England.  Friends  he  had  none. 
His  family  connections  had  always  seemed  to  him  too 
obscure  and  inconvenient  to  be  recognized,    and  if,  now 


122  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

that  he  was  in  difficulties,  he  had  seen  fit  to  send  them 
any  communication,  their  station  in  life  was  not  such 
that  either  any  annoyance  or  their  astonishment  could 
reach  the  ear  of  London  gossip.  Charles  Aumerle  was 
still  in  Paris,  and  he  seldom  wrote  letters.  LordReckage 
was  absent  in  the  country,  paying  court  to  an  heiress  and 
making  notes  for  an  address  on  "  Erastianism."  Hercy 
Berenville  was  in  town  with  Orange  (they  were  both 
staying  at  Lord  Almouth"s),  but  on  this  particular  day  he 
Avas  spending  the  afternoon  with  some  cousins  in  Curzon 
Street. 

Robert,  having  read  Brigit's  appeal,  set  out  at  once  for 
the  address  given  on  the  first  page  of  her  note.  It  was 
not  until  he  reached  the  Convent  gates  that  he  fully 
realized  the  delicacy  of  his  position  and  also  its  poignant, 
though  indefinable,  unhappiness.  Until  that  moment  all 
thought  on  the  subject  had  been  lost  in  the  emotion  caused 
by  the  mere  sight  of  her  letter  and  the  stirring  remem- 
brances it  brought  of  her  visible  presence. 

He  describes  the  interview  at  the  Convent  in  a  letter 
sent  that  evening  to  Lord  Reckage  : — 

"  A  nun  opened  the  grille  and  looked  out  at  me.  I  asked 
whether  I  might  be  allowed  to  see  Mrs.  Parflete.  She  retired, 
and  after  ten  minutes  came  back  again  with  a  second  nun. 
They  drew  back  the  heavy  bolt  and  turned  the  great  key.  I 
was  admitted  into  a  covered  court  which  ran  along  a  stone- 
paved  yard,  where  a  fountain  played  and  plants  grew  in  red 
earthenware  pots.  There  were  even  one  or  two  small  orange 
trees.  It  was  very  quaint  and  so  un-English  that  I  felt  as 
though  1  had  inadvertently  stepped  into  some  Italian  scene.  I 
waited  there  a  few  moments  alone  and  examined,  at  my  leisure, 
the  thick  gray  walls  and  the  pavement,  worn  by  the  passing  of 
many  feet  through  many  centuries.  At  last  the  two  nuns,  both 
of  whom  were  old  and  more  silent  than  spirits,  conducted  me 
up  a  flight  of  stairs  into  a  small  sitting-room  lurnished  with  a 
crucifix,  oak-and-horsehair  furniture  and  a  small  bookcase. 
Here  they  left  me.  From  the  window,  which  was  much  over- 
grown  with    ivy,  I  could  see  a  triangular    garden,  cut  up    into 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  133 

gravel  paths  and  shaded  by  tall  plane  trees,  On  the  grass  plot 
facing  me  I  saw  three  or  four  little  graves  :  one  was  quite 
recent,  and  marked  by  a  small  wooden  cross  and  a  wreath  just 
fading.  All  this  was  fenced  ai)out  by  a  high  stone  wall.  Above 
them  was  a  pearly  sky — a  sky  which  made  me  think  of  spring 
days  by  the  Loire.  It  was  a  relief  to  my  spirits  to  hear  the 
sound  of  young  girls  laughing.  I  inferred  that  they  were  pupils 
in  the  Convent  school.  They  seemed  full  of  merriment.  When 
the  Archduchess  came  in  (ibr  to  call  her  less  is  to  insult  her 
mother),  I  could  not  speak.  She  had  greatly  changed.  Her 
face  was  as  a  rose-garden  seen  through  the  blinding  rain  ;  yet, 
so  far  from  having  lost  her  beauty,  I  found  it  was  more  complete. 
Her  mouth  had  always  seemed  a  shade  disdainful  ;  it  was  now 
merely  proud.  As  I  tell  you.  I  was  speechless.  1  know  1 
looked  a  fool.  My  feelings  were  indescribable.  I  wished 
myself  a  thousand  miles  away,  while  1  was,  I  believe,  overjoyed 
to  meet  her  once  more  at  least.  Her  face  has  looked  out  at  me 
from  every  page  ever  since  that  first  day  on  the  staircase  at 
Chambord.  On  walls  and  pavements,  even  on  the  sky  itself,  I 
have  seen  it  constantly.  She  has  been  a  figure  in  my  heart  and 
a  seal  upon  my  eyes.  Why  should  I  deny  it  ?  It  was  not  a 
thing  of  my  own  will.  If  I  think  about  her  it  is  but  to  remember 
that  she  and  I  are  utterly  dissociated.  To  ask  more  is  to  ask 
what  I  have  not  in  my  power  to  bestow.  Other  men  may  not 
be  haunted  by  impressions.  But  if  a  star  shines  on  a  weed,  the 
weed  may  not,  even  if  it  would,  reject  the  brightness.  I  shall 
have  wretchedness  and  despair  enough  for  all  this.  I  do  not 
deceive  myself.  Wretchedness,  however,  is  not  always  an  evil. 
In  this  case,  I  do  not  even  think  it  a  misfortune.  I  accept  it, 
calling  it  by  its  own  name  only  and  teasing  my  poor  wits  no 
iurther.  I  know  this — that,  if  I  were  e.xempt  from  every  outward 
ill  under  the  sun,  I  should  still  hammer  out  of  my  own  heart, 
as  out  of  a  flint,  the  sparks  and  flashings  of  misery.  You  will 
say  this  is  the  Apologia  pro  amore  sno — then  let  it  be  that,  that 
— or  nothing  less  at  all  events.  But  it  is  not  love  in  the  common 
sense.  What  is  the  common  sense,  pray  ?  Who  knows  .?  We 
all  commonly  he  on  this  point.  I  dialogue  thus  with  my  con- 
science all  day  and  whole  nights.   .   .   . 

"  When  she  saw  me.  she  held  out  both  her  hands  and  said, 
wiiii  lears  in  her  voice,  '  I  thought  of  you  because  1  need  help, 
and  I  am  your  countrywoman  :  Nos  cui  mundus  est  patria.' 
Ah  :  that  is  it.  She  has  said  it.  The  world  is  our  country,  yet 
in  every  land  we  are  exiles." 

The  letter  goes  011  to  tell  what  wc  already  know  of  the 


124  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

facts  in   connection  with   Parflete's   dismissal   from   the 
Archduke's  household. 

"  The  task  now,"  continues  Robert,  "  is  to  find  him.  He  is  a 
man  whose  nature  may  be  said  to  make  his  destiny.  It  will  be 
till  the  end  a  contemptible  fiasco.  He  has  neither  the  self- 
confidence  of  a  true  rascal  nor  the  guilelessness  of  a  true  fool. 
I  can  well  believe  that  he  never  cheated  at  cards,  save  on  that 
first,  last,  fatal  occasion  when  he  was  discovered.  He  is  doomed 
to  be  ludicrous.  The  real  villain  must  be  free  from  vanity,  for 
vanity  will  keep  human  beings  straight  when  every  heavenly  or 
other  consideration  would  fail.  Parflete  had  to  deceive  himself 
before  he  could  attempt  to  deceive  other  people.  He  labored 
to  feel  that  he  was  at  once  the  greatest  dandy,  the  greatest  wit 
and  the  most  dangerous  libertine  on  the  Continent.  He  was  a 
bad  actor  and  he  knew  it.  Imagine,  therefore,  how  exhausted 
he  must  have  been  when  he  found  it  necessary  to  indulge  in 
soliloquy  !  His  wife  implores  me  to  find  him.  Acting  on 
advice  given  her  at  Tours,  she  has  come  to  London  in  the  hope 
of  meeting  her  husband  here.  She  is  staying  at  the  Convent 
because  she  is  alone,  and  because,  so  she  assures  me,  she  is 
happier  there  than  she  would  be  at  a  hotel  or  in  lodgings.  I 
see  the  wisdom  of  the  decision,  for,  with  her  youth,  appearance 
and  inexperience,  I  could  not  recommend  a  safer  refuge.  A 
woman  who  is  neither  with  her  husband,  nor  yet  a  widow,  is 
better  in  the  cloister.  She  seems  to  have  all  the  liberty  she 
could  reasonably  demand,  and  she  could  leave  the  Convent  to- 
morrow did  she  so  wish.  .  .  .  That  she  can  love  Parflete  is 
impossible.  Respect  is  out  of  the  question.  I  trace  much  of 
her  feeling  to  an  alarm  for  his  soul.  She  is  a  Roman  Catholic 
of  the  fine  human  sort — not  in  the  least  sanctimonious,  but  ever 
mindful  of  the  four  last  things — Death,  Judgment,  Hell  and 
Heaven.  I  have  promised  to  help  her.  But  I  had  rather  see 
her  shut  up  in  a  Convent  till  the  end  of  her  mortal  days  than 
living  again  with  that  husband." 

So  the  letter  ends,  and,  as  we  can  see,  in  no  hopeful 
strain.  Orange  had  given  his  word  to  seek  for  someone 
whom,  in  his  heart,  he  could  not  wish  to  find.  We  may 
imagine  this  impetuous,  often  intolerant,  yet  always 
chivalrous  man  caught  in  the  meshes  of  a  false  position. 
We  see,  even  in  the  abrupt  conclusion  of  his  letter,  a  state 
of  mind  too  raw  to  bear  the  light  of  reason.     Something 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  125 

irmsi  grow  out  of  the  gray  of  thought  and  time,  and  foriH 
obscurely  over  it,  before  he  can  bear  to  examine  the 
weakness. 

Some  days  passed  before  he  wrote  again  to  Reckage. 
This  time  he  had  other  news  : — 

«  My  books  sold  far  better  than  I  expected.  I  hate  parting 
with  them.  It  seems  too  hard  a  sacrifice  to  make  in  a  mere 
attempt  to  reduce  the  Liberal  majority  !  Disraeli  remarked 
that  I  was  the  tirsl  political  candidate  without  fortune  who  had 
not  spol<en  luminously  with  him  on  the  subject  of  the  Secret 
Service  money.  •  Every  tongue-wagger  thinks,' said  he,  'that 
the  State  should  provide  him  with  a  handsome  income  and  his 
expenses  !  '  He  hinted,  with  great  delicacy,  that,  in  my  case, 
'  something  might  be  done.'  I  thanked  him.  But  I  cannot 
sell  my  independence.  I  have  certain  ideas  of  my  own.  They 
may  be  wrong.  Then  they  are  not  worth  buying.  If  they 
should  be  right,  I  cannot  do  better  than  invest  in  them  myself, 
I  am  selling  my  library  ;  my  coat  and  my  boots  may  follow. 
All  I  ask  is  to  keep  my  own  soul  and  the  monk's  habit  which 
belonged  to  my  father.     Alas  !  the  paradox." 

This,  in  the  whole  of  Orange's  correspondence,  is  the 
solitary  reference  to  his  father's  marriage.  It  was  ever  a 
sensitive  point,  and  his  whole  life  was  spent  in  the  self- 
dedicated  task  of  doing  penance  for  the  blot  on  the  family 
word.  It  is  quite  certain  that  he  accepted  the  many  trials 
of  his  career  in  a  spirit  wholly  contrary  to  his  proud  and 
combative  nature.  He  resented  persecution  when  it 
came — as  we  shall  shortly  see  it  did  come — but  he  fought 
with  the  uncomplaining  energy  of  those  who  view  the 
world  as  a  field  of  battle,  and  not  as  a  garden  where  one 
may  dream  according  to  one's  stomach. 

What  follows  in  the  letter  from  which  we  have  quoted 
is  still  more  remarkable  : — 

"  Yesterday  "  (he  sayS),  "  I  was  received  into  the  Roman  com- 
munion. I  went  to  a  little  chapel  I  know  ot  and  made  my  pro- 
fession to  a  simple  parish  priest— a  Secular.  He  knows  my 
name,  but  nothing  more  of  me.     We  have  had  a  short  corre- 


126  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

spondence,  however,  and  the  step  is  not  sudden.  I  have  been 
meditating  it  for  several  years,  and  my  mind  on  that  point  is  at 
last  clear.  1  know  the  case  against  Rome  by  heart,  and  from 
its  accusers,  I  have  learned  its  defence.  Disraeli,  who  is  not  un- 
sympathetic, admits,  that,  until  a  man  is  settled  in  his  religious 
belief,  one  may  never  know  what  to  expect  from  him  !  But  he 
condemns  my  proceeding  on  the  eve  of  a  political  contest  as 
suicidal.  I  replied  that  I  could  not  flatter  myself  that  I  should 
be  permitted  the  distinction  of  suffering  for  my  creed. 

In  this  respect  he  was  too  modest.  Lord  Reckage's 
reply  to  his  communication  was  a  severe  surprise.  It 
was  long  and  elaborately  worded.  It  contained  many 
line  sentiments,  and  the  tone  was,  perhaps,  not  so  insin- 
cere as  it  was  artificial.  Treasure  may  be  wrapped  alike 
in  tinsel  or  in  cloth  of  gold,  and  it  would  be  as  unjust  to 
judge  of  a  parcel  by  its  covering  as  to  appraise  a  man's 
candor  by  the  merits  or  shortcomings  of  his  literary  style. 
We  say  this  because  it  seems  inconceivable  that  a  person 
of  Orange's  discernment  could  have  felt  the  deep  affection 
which  he  always  held  for  Lord  Reckage,  if  that  nobleman 
had  been,  in  reality,  the  sham  Crusader  whom  his  own 
letters  seem  to  indicate,  and  whom  his  later  critics  do  not 
scruple  to  describe. 

After  ten  pages  of  compliments  to  his  Secretary's  worth, 
and  much  frank  depreciation  of  himself,  he  winds  up 
thus  : — 

"  You  will  see  that,  in  becoming  an  Ultramontane,  you  have 
made  it  very  difficult  for  me  to  be  associated  with  you  in  any 
political  sense.  My  trust  in  your  conscience  would  be  mistaken 
for  sympathy  with  your  creed.  I  shall  always  count  you  among 
my  friends  and  depend  upon  the  matchless  wisdom  of  your  pri- 
vate counsel,  but  our  public  connection  must,  I  fear,  l)e  severed. 
I  have  a  fellow  in  my  mind,  who  might,  for  the  moment,  take 
your  place  as  my  secretary.  He  is  already  in  Parliament,  and 
his  father  is  a  man  of  great  commercial  influence  and  blunt 
worth.  I  should  like  your  opmion  of  the  son.  He  seems  capa- 
ble, willing  and  unpretentious.  That  I  can  ever  find  your  equal 
is  a  hope  too  preposterous  to  be  entertained.     Yet,  after  all,  our 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  127 

rupture  will  be  a  superficial  one  only.  What  is  it  but  that  con- 
cession to  aii]-)earances  and  the  popular  judgment  which  every 
man,  who  seeks  the  popular  confidence,  must  be  ready,  at  the 
sacritice  of  his  personal  wishes,  to  make  ?  Your  own  sense  of  fair- 
ness, your  own  common  sense,  will  admit  the  necessity  of  this 
painful  course.  My  exculpation  will  find  its  clearest  voice  in 
your  own  generosity." 

It  was  a  plea  from  the  timid  to  the  strong.  The  en- 
treated generosity  did  not  fail,  btit,  unfortunately,  Orange's 
reply  to  his  lordship  is  either  lost  or  destroyed — probably 
the  latter.  We  may  presume  that  its  tenor  was  ironical, 
that  his  cautious  friend  did  not  find  it  comfortable  read- 
ing. Yet  it  must  have  been  kind  also,  because  we  find 
the  correspondence  between  the  two  continuing,  for 
many  years  afterwards,  in  the  same  intimate  strain  and 
with  the  same  regularity.  The  blow  to  Orange,  however 
was  of  the  steely  kind  which  affects  a  man's  whole  nature 
till  his  blood  itself  grows  permanently  pale  and  his  mar- 
row partakes  of  metal.  He  found  himself,  at  a  critical 
moment,  deprived,  at  one  stroke,  of  his  chief  ally  and  of 
the  main  source  of  his  income.  With  the  prospect  of  par- 
liamentary service  before  him,  he  could  not  hope  to  gain 
much  by  his  literary  pen.  No  young  man,  in  public  or 
artistic  life,  is  able  to  save  any  considerable  sum  out  of 
his  first  earnings.  He  is  exceptional,  indeed,  if  he  can 
escape  the  chafing  harness  of  debt.  He  finds  himself 
thrown  into  the  society  of  those  whose  fortunes  are  de- 
rived from  ancient  land  grants  or  confiscated  church  prop- 
erty, from  commercial  ancestors,  or  from  flourishing 
industries,  trades  and  city  interests.  Many,  doubtless,  of 
these  licensed  idlers  could  earn,  under  the  pressure  of 
necessity,  a  decent  livelihood.  Many  of  them,  from  time 
to  time,  have  occtipied,  and  occupy,  positions  of  public 
trust  with  respect  and  occasionally  genius.  It  is  perse- 
verance rather  than  ability  that  is  uncommon.  But  one 
thing  is  certain.     Ambition   and  great  talent,  and   even 


128  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

exhortations  to  poverty,  can  neither  be  demonstrated  nor 
preached  without  the  aid  of  money,  and  a  great  deal  of 
money.  Orange's  position  was,  therefore,  calamitous. 
In  any  case,  he  had  no  hope  of  winning,  at  the  first  contest, 
the  Norbet  Royal  election.  The  unlooked-for  withdrawal 
of  Reckage's  support  seemed  ominous.  Robert  felt  that 
he  must  either  obtain  another  Secretaryship  or  retire  from 
the  scene  until  he  could  establish  a  reserve  fund  which 
would  enable  him  to  exist  through  a  year  or  two,  at  least, 
of  unpaid  labor. 

He  went  to  Disraeli  and  explained  the  newly-soured 
aspect  of  affairs.  Disraeli  was  in  a  silent  mood.  He 
offered  neither  comment  nor  advice.  He  promised  to 
write  in  a  day  or  two.  Orange  received  a  note  that  same 
night. 

"  There  is  a  man "  (it  runs)  "  who  would  do.  A  Peer : 
stupid  :  a  thorough  gentleman  :  certainly  courageous  :  comes 
rarely  to  the  House  of  Lords  :  is  partial  to  Mary  of  Scots  :  loves 
water-color  drawings  and  refuses  to  take  modern  politics  seri- 
ously. Nevertheless,  he  is  on  the  other  side.  You  might  win 
him  over  to  us.  His  interest  in  Mary  looks  a  promising  sign. 
Lead  him  'by  easy  roads  to  Leicester,'  Speak  of  Zucchero 
and  mean  Peel.*  If  you  think  it  worth  trying,  I  can  promise 
you  the  berth.  A  lady  controls  it.  She  is  omnipotent  :  has  the 
Stuart  complexion,  and  you  interest  her." 

Orange  had  no  leaning  toward  little  Queen  Besses  and 
his  spirit  rebelled  from  the  ' '  interest "  of  any  "  omnipotent 
lady."  He  saw  himself  in  fresh  difficulties.  Disraeli's 
kindness  in  the  matter  deserved  no  common  response. 
To  refuse  the  introduction  which  he  had  offered  would 
look  like  ingratitude  or  silliness.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  was  always  a  dangerous  and  unpleasant  thing  to  be  laid 
under  any  obligation   to  a  woman's   good  graces.     Dis- 

*  Disraeli's  full  appreciation  of  Sir  Robert  Peel  seems  to  date  from 
that  great  minister's  exit  from  this  world. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  129 

raeli's  reference  to  the  feminine  influence  in  question  con- 
tained a  whole  policy  in  brief.  It  was  impossible  to 
doubt  his  meaning.  Orange  had  even  a  very  shrewd 
suspicion  of  the  "omnipotent  lady's"  identity.  She  was 
rich,  amiable,  sufficiently  young,  and  a  vi'idow.  She  was 
' '  ethereal,"  as  Robert  himself  had  once  said  of  her, ' '  from 
the  chin  upwards."  She  did  not  flirt,  except  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  two  young  children,  but  she  sang  passionate 
songs  in  a  minor  key,  and  talked  the  natural  philosophy 
of  love  with  great  refinement.  Portraits  of  her  at  this 
period  show  a  pleasing  oval  face,  and  hair  arranged  in  a 
chignon,  terminating  in  two  long  fair  curls  to  the  waist. 
She  signed  herself  Peiiske  Fiiz  Rewes.  Her  motto  was — 
Je  me  nourris  de  flayyinies  (I  feed  on  flame).  She  had  the 
rank  and  title  of  a  Viscountess  and  her  uncle  was  the  Earl 
of  Wight  and  Man.*  We  hear,  on  the  unimpeachable 
authority  of  all  Robert's  opponents,  that  women  consid- 
ered him  "extremely  handsome."  When  men  called  him 
an  adventurer,  the  fair  ones  showed  "annoyance  and,  in 
some  cases,  genuine  unhappiness. "  He  was  a  brilliant 
figure  at  a  time  when,  if  we  may  believe  contemporary 
records  and  the  memoirs  of  the  great,  the  social  arena  in 
London  was  crowded  with  remarkable  personalities.  If, 
therefore,  he  had  excited  interest  in  the  love-lit  mind  of 
Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  it  was  not  astonishing,  and  we  need 
not  be  so  surprised,  as  he  himself  unquestionably  was,  at 
the  pregnant  item  at  the  close  of  Disraeli's  letter. 

The  force  of  a  temptation  may  be  said  to  lie  in  its  cor- 
respondence with  some  unconscious  or  some  admitted 
desire.  Robert  was  an  ambitious  man.  This  passion, 
like  a  sleeping  dragon,  lay  side  by  side  with  the  unselfish 
romance  of  his  nature — a  romance  which  had  received 


*  The  recent  sale  of  this  nobleman's  collection  of  old  lace  and  Italian 
water-colors  may  be  fresh  in  the  minds  of  many  readers. 

9 


I30  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

the  kiss  of  Gallic  gayety  as  well  as  the  thorn  of  mediaeval 
asceticism.  He  who  has  even  once  subdued  the  flesh  in 
favor  of  the  spirit  can  never  again  return  in  joy  to  carnal 
things.  Robert  had  resisted  mundanity — not  always,  in- 
deed, but  often.  It  now  turned  upon  him,  even  as  he 
seemed  half-willing  to  embrace  it,  and,  with  its  very 
promise,  it  breathed  a  curse.  That  way  there  might  per- 
haps be  power,  there  might  perhaps  be  a  little  brief  exal- 
tation of  the  lower  vanities,  but  there  would  be  a  burning 
darkness  in  his  soul  which  remorse  could  not  quench  nor 
endurance  lighten.  It  might  seem  that  a  man,  to  whom 
Folly  presented  herself  with  a  crown  of  horrors,  was  in 
small  danger  of  committing  a  foolish  act.  But  Folly — no 
less  than  Wisdom — has  her  martyrs,  and,  while  she  de- 
ceives the  weak  by  flattery,  she  warns  the  strong,  with  a 
candor  even  more  dangerous  than  blandishments,  that  her 
discipline  is  cruel,  and  her  reward  an  ordeal. 

Robert  was  stan.ding  in  the  Library  of  Almouth  House, 
considering  all  these  points  and  studying  Disraeli's  letter, 
when  Lord  Reckage  himself,  unannounced  and  un- 
expected, entered  the  room.  For  a  moment  both  men 
lost  their  countenance,  and  neither  of  them  could  speak. 
Then  they  greeted  each  other  as  though  nothing  had 
happened  to  disturb  their  friendliness. 

Lord  Reckage,  ot  whom  it  might  now  be  well  to  give 
some  description,  was  a  slim,  handsome  man  with  an 
auburn  beard  and  darker  hair  prematurely  tinged  with 
gray.  His  complexion  was  healthy  and  his  blue  eyes 
had  not  the  languor  which  is  so  often  found  in  individuals 
of  such  coloring.  There  was  something  Quixotic  in  the 
shape  of  his  face  and  the  droop  of  his  eyebrows.  He  had 
the  interesting  air — without  the  misery — of  a  melancholy 
mind.  Though  he  presented  an  appearance  of  much 
gentleness,  he  possessed  a  fierce  and  even  cruel  temper. 
His  manner  had  a  grace  which  was  all  but  feminine,  yet 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  xp 

he  lacked  every  quality  which  makes  for  effeminacy. 
Tactful  rather  than  timid,  superstitious  rather  than  pious, 
calculating  rather  than  affectionate,  artistic  rather  than 
refined,  he  was  never,  it  must  be  owned,  deliberately 
insincere.  To  Robert,  who  loved  frankness  above  all 
other  things,  this  was  perhaps  the  commanding  charm  of 
Reckage's  society.  Hercy,  who  was  in  every  intellectual 
respect  his  brother's  superior,  had  a  certain  slyness  which 
gave  even  his  conspicuous  merits — such  as  patience  and 
good-humor — the  alloy  of  unreality.  Reckage  was  a 
man  who  acted  on  opinions  which,  however  contradic- 
tory in  themselves,  he  was  never  afraid  to  declare.  There 
was  a  total  absence  of  self-consciousness  in  his  mental 
methods  which  made  him  at  once  confident  and  un- 
reliable. 

"  lam  sorry,'"  said  he,  "that  I  have  had  to  go  against 
you  over  this  Catholic  question.  Do  I  care  what  you 
are  ?  All  the  same,  I  don't  believe  in  the  Roman  claim, 
and  if  it  is  a  true  one,  I  don't  want  to  know  it  !  I  have 
no  great  talent,  so  I  must  make  the  best  use  of  my 
faults  !  I  am  set  on  getting  a  place  in  the  next  Govern- 
ment. We  shall  soon  turn  these  fellows  out.  They  are 
ready  to  tear  each  other  in  pieces.  Among  other  things, 
they  say  that  Hartington  *  is  too  young  for  his  appoint- 
ment. It  ought  to  have  been  given  to  some  one  of  a 
dozen  doddering  old  Peers,  all  of  whom  are  now  raging 
up  and  down  the  Clubs,  plottirng  mischief  against  their 
own  Party.  The  very  fact  that  John  Stuart  Mill  lost  his 
seat  will  show  you  what  the  present  Liberal  crew  is  made 
of  And  now  they  go  about  complaining  that  Gladstone 
has  no  tact." 

"It  is  a  case,"  said  Robert,  "where  God  ynight  he 
ashamed  lo  he  their  God. " 

*  The  present  Duke  of  Devonshire. 


J 32  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Reckage  flushed  a  little.  "What  do  you  hear  from 
Dizzy  ?  "  he  asked. 

Robert  handed  him  Disraeli's  letter. 

"Does  he  mean  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  ? "  said  Reckage, 
when  he  had  read  it.  "  She  has  always  been  busy  about 
you  !  " 

"I  know  her  very  slightly,''  said  Robert. 

"But  why  should  you  know  her  slightly.?  She's  a 
nice  woman  and  high-minded,  and  quite  good-looking 
enough.  A  gadding  wife  would  be  the  devil,  and  a 
pretty  one  is  downright  wear-and-tear !  I  wish  you 
could  love  this  one,  although  no  man  yet,  I  suppose,  ever 
loved  under  advice.  But  1  believe  she  is  fond  of  you,  and 
she  doesn't  seem  to  care  who  knows  it." 

"Which  is  a  bore,"  said  Robert,  ''for,  in  that  case, 
every  one  knows  more  than  I  do  !  " 

"She  isn't  the  first  who  has  lost  her  time  over  you, 
and  more's  the  pity.  What  is  the  use  of  that  other  affair.? 
It  can't  do  you  any  good  either  in  this  world  or  the  next ! 
Parflete  will  live  forever.  Will  you  waste  your  best 
years  on  an  incalculable  hope  ?  " 

"  You  know  what  the  Buddhists  teach  with  regard  to 
the  chances  of  a  soul's  escape  from  one  of  the  hells.?"  said 
Robert.  "  A  man  throws  a  yoke  into  the  sea.  The 
winds  blow  it  in  different  directions.  In  the  same  sea 
there  is  a  blind  tortoise.  After  the  lapse  of  a  hundred,  or 
a  thousand,  or  a  hundred  thousand  years,  the  tortoise 
rises  to  the  surface  of  the  water.  Will  the  time  ever 
come  when  that  tortoise  shall  so  rise  up  that  its  neck 
shall  enter  that  yoke  and  float  to  land?     It  may." 

"It  may,"  said  Reckage,  "but  in  the  mean  time — " 

"In  the  mean  time,"  said  Robert,  "one  boils  in  one's 
iron  pot,  or  one  feeds  on  burning  metal,  or  one  is 
beaten   with  heavy  rods  !  " 

**  Then  I  am  glad  that  I   am  neither  a  Buddhist — nor 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  133 

a  lover,"  said  Reckage.  "Love  in  some  natures  seems 
to  turn  the  blood  of  life  to  tears  and  fire.  I  want  none 
of  it." 

Robert  made  no  reply. 

"  Take  Pensee  Fitz  Rewes  again,"  continued  Reckage  : 
"  she  is  a  great  opportunity — if  you  wish  to  succeed. 
Are  nice  women  common  ?  Do  I  ask  you  to  sell  your 
soul  to  the  devil .?  " 

"  That  is  the  worst  bargain  that  any  man  can  make  ! 
Thme,  0  Lord,  are  all  things  that  are  in  Heaven,  a?jd  that  are 
in  earth.  The  devil  can  give  us  nothing.  It  is  we  who  are 
always  making  presents  to  the  devil !  Success  depends 
— not  on  the  devil  at  all — but  on  our  natural  talents. 
Look  at  the  dancing  elephant — has  he  made  any  sacri- 
fice to  the  spirits  of  evil }  Not  a  bit  of  it.  He  was  born 
with  a  lii-ht  foot — for  his  kind.  And  as  for  work  !  See 
how  worldly  people  toil  and  scheme  in  order  to  gain 
their  treasure.  When  disappointments  happen — they 
become  the  jest  of  serving  maids  and  lookers-on — food 
for  the  crowd  !  They  perish  from  humiliation.  If  one 
wants  independence — one  must  keep  on  the  side  of  the 
angels  !  That  is  mere  prudence — quite  apart  from  every 
other  thought." 

"  O  yes — there  is  always  one's  immortal  soul — and 
one's  eternal  destiny.  I  believe  in  all  that.  I  go  a  long 
way  with  you  on  that  line.     I  believe  in  Hell." 

"  When  most  people  speak  of  the  soul — they  mean  the 
five  senses  !  The  real  doctrine  of  immortality  is  quite 
forgotten  nowadays." 

Reckage  took  out  his  note-book. 

"I  will  work  that  idea  into  my  speech,"  said  he,  "it 
would  interest  a  number  of  people — and  perhaps  do  a  lot 
of  good." 

"Would   any   Christian   gentleman    venture   to   quote 


134  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Scripture   in    the   House  of  Commons  ? "  asked   Orange, 
dryly. 

"As  a  rule,"  said  Reckage,  "  it  would  be  considered  a 
mark  of  bad  taste.  But  all  would  depend  on  the  oc- 
casion. You  don't  want  to  shock  people — do  you  ?  I 
wonder  whether  Disraeli's  influence  will  make  you  reck- 
less. I  can't  believe  in  him.  He  is  laughing  in  his 
sleeve  at  all  of  us.  Every  one  says  so.  What  is  he — a 
brilliant  adventurer — a  Jewish  upstart — yet  he  wants  to 
lead  the  aristocratic  party  in  England.  The  idea  tickles 
his  sense  of  humor." 

"  You  mistake  him  wholly.  His  pride  of  race  is  enor- 
mous. If  he  is  trying  to  lead  the  aristocratic  party,  it  is 
because  he  is  himself  an  aristocrat  and  has  the  right  to 
lead.  Does  a  king  chuckle  when  his  men  muster  round 
him  .''  No — he  accepts  allegiance  as  his  due.  It  is  so 
with  Disraeli.  Your  real  impostor  always  comes  to  grief, 
because  he  is  essentially  servile.  When  Disraeli  stands 
among  his  peers — you  recognize  the  Premier  at  a  glance. 
He  won't  find  many  faithful  supporters — but  in  that 
respect  he  is  eminently  philosophic.  His  strength  lies  in 
his  freedom  of  soul.  He  depends  on  no  man  either  for 
sympathy  or  courage." 

"You  may  be  right.  But  what  do  you  say  to  his  hint 
about  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  a  prudent  and  delicate  test — that  is  all." 

"  What  will  you  say  to  him  ?  " 

"  I  intend  to  call  on  the  lady  first.  And  then — the  rest 
will  be  easy." 

Lord  Reckage  began  to  hum  a  little  air. 

"If  my  mind  had  been  free,"  said  Orange,  "all  this 
might  have  been  well  enough," 

"I  don't  quite  see  how  you  reconcile  this — devotion  to 
Mrs.  Parflete  with  your  other  views,"  said  Reckage, 
bluntly.      "I  know  you  are  ascetic,  but  a  man  is  a  man. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  135 

If  you  love  a  person — that  means  that  you  cannot  live 
naturally  without  them.  You  may  put  it  any  way  :  you 
may  fast  five  days  out  of  the  seven,  and  you  may  feel  as 
though  you'had  been  dragged  through  seven  cities  :  you 
may  wear  a  hair-shirt  next  your  skin  :  you  may  clothe 
yourself  in  iron  chains — but — but — Amore  una  passione  in 
disianza!' 

And,  indeed,  there  was  that  in  Robert's  attitude  of 
mind  in  this  regard  which  could  but  be  incomprehensible 
to  one  who  was  ignorant  of  certain  traits  in  the  Breton 
character.  Orange  was,  by  his  father's  blood  and  his 
own  early  associations,  a  Breton.  Renan,  who  was  him- 
self a  native  of  Brittany,  has  said  that  all  the  Celtic  races 
have  in  their  hearts  an  eternal  source  of  folly  and  that  this 
very  malady  is  their  charm.  Love  is  with  them  a  senti- 
ment rather  than  a  passion.  It  is  a  spiritual  rapture — a 
mental  thrill  which  wears  away  and  kills  the  bodily  life. 
It  bears  no  resemblance  to  the  fire  and  fury  of  the  South. 
The  Southern  lover  slays  his  rival,  slays  the  object  of  his 
passion.  This  Breton's  sentiment  slays  only  him  who 
feels  it.  No  other  race  can  show  so  .many  deaths  from 
love  ;  suicide,  indeed,  is  rare — they  perish  from  a  linger- 
ing decline.  One  sees  this  constantly  among  the  Breton 
conscripts.  Unable  to  find  either  pleasure  or  forgetful- 
ness  in  vulgar  and  bought  amours — they  sink  under  some 
indefinable  grief.  The  h'ome-sickness  is  but  an  appear- 
ance :  the  truth  is  that  love  with  them  is  inseparably 
associated  with  their  native  village,  its  steeple,  the  even- 
ing Angelus,  the  familiar  fields  and  lanes.  Their  imagi- 
nation is  filled  with  a  desire  alike  beyond  all  common 
needs  and  ordinary  satisfactions.  Idealism  in  all  its  de- 
grees— the  pursuit  of  some  moral  or  intellectual  end — 
often  wrong,  always  disinterested — is  the  first  character- 
istic of  the  Celt.  Never  was  a  race  so  unfit  for  the 
industrial  arts  or  commerce.     A  noble  occupation  is  in 


136  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

their  eyes  that  by  which  one  gains  nothing — for  in- 
stance, that  of  a  priest,  a  soldier,  or  a  sailor,  that  of  a 
true  aristocrat  who  cultivates  his  land  according  to  the 
tradition  of  his  ancestors,  that  of  a  magistrate,  that  of  a 
scholar  who  devotes  himself  to  the  acquisition  of  learning 
for  its  own  sake. 

All  this  then  was  strongly  developed  in  Robert's  char- 
acter and  formed  its  essence.  Lord  Reckage  was,  in 
every  fibre  and  emotion,  Saxon.  He  could  indeed  form 
some  conception  of  that  love  of  the  "  homme  du  Midi" 
which  must  be  driven  out  by  the  whip  and  scourge  :  but 
his  sympathies  were  allied  with  those  affections  and  in- 
stincts which  should  ever  render  obedience  to  the  voice 
of  reason  or  the  warnings  of  propriety. 

But  such  love  as  Robert's — at  once  so  illusive  and  yet 
so  powerful  in  its  sway — such  love  as  that  was  wholly 
beyond  his  knowledge. 


The  school  for  saints.  137 


CHAPTER  11. 

The  Viscountess  Fitz  Rewes,  who  lived  in  Curzon  Street, 
occupied  what  is  sometimes  called  a  maisonnetle.  It  was 
a  small  house  with  a  canary  bird  in  a  gilt  cage  at  each 
window  of  the  dining-room,  and  a  number  of  vines  and 
plants  on  the  drawing-room  balcony.  The  widow  received 
her  friends  every  afternoon  between  three  and  four. 

As  Orange  walked  on  his  way  to  her  innocent  dwelling, 
he  placed  before  himself  the  considerations  which  made 
the  visit  necessary.  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  was  a  woman  for 
whom  he  had  a  real  liking.  She  was  gentle  and  affection- 
ate. If  one  wanted  a  being  ideally  strong  in  love  and 
weak  in  argument — Pensee  looked  the  incarnation  of  these 
feminine  virtues.  When  absent  from  sight,  she  remained 
in  one's  memory — a  gracious  figure  that  floated — always 
elegant  and  appropriate — into  any  fair  scene  which  might 
seem  to  require  some  infusion  of  humanity  to  make  it — 
in  an  earthly  sense — perfect.  She  had  written  him,  in  the 
course  of  their  acquaintance,  such  little  notes  as  may  be 
sent  from  a  great  lady  of  the  best  of  all  "possible  worlds 
to  an  obscure  young  man  without  fortune,  in  whom  back- 
wardness was  but  respect,  and  silence,  a  sign  of  hopeless 
passion. 

The  situation  was  difficult  in  the  extreme.  When  will 
great — and  other — ladies  learn  that  audacity  in  love  is 
determined  not  by  a  man's  deserts  but  by  his  desires.? 
Diffidence  springs  less  from  humility  than  indecision. 

"I  could  almost  wish,"  thought  Robert,  "that  women 
were  not  so  kind  !  "    Then  again,  "Why  cannot  we  adore 


138  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

them  all  equally?  "    And  again,  "  What  does  her  imagina- 
tion see  in  me?     I  wish  she  had  less  imagination." 

Was  the  vision  of  a  fair  face — the  soft  remembrance  of 
a  few  spring  days,  to  leave  so  permanent  an  impress  on 
his  life,  that  ambition,  success,  the  counsel  of  friends 
were  but  the  dust  of  travel  in  comparison  ?  In  Robert 
the  love  of  power  was  perhaps  the  ruling  passion.  His 
was  a  dominant  spirit,  intolerant  of  restraint,  eager,  im- 
pulsive, self-reliant.  As  a  boy,  wandering  alone  on  the 
rocks  and  sands  of  St.  Malo,  he  had  seemed  to  be  ruling 
his  kingdom  up.der  the  sea — that  mythical  city  of  Is — so 
dear  to  the  Bretons.  There  was  his  splendid  army,  there, 
— his  palace,  there, — his  Queen.  The  humiliations,  ab- 
surdities and  vulgarity  of  the  daily  struggle  were  there 
unknown.  All  the  sorrows  were  grand  and  all  the 
pleasures,  noble.  His  fancy,  nourished  on  the  stories  of 
Saul  and  David,  of  the  Greeks,  of  Roland,  of  King  Arthur, 
existed  in  scenes  before  which  the  nervous  modern  of  our 
days  is  as  the  blind  and  deaf. 

Robert's  life  had  been,  on  the  whole,  both  sad  and 
solitary.  He  lived  in  an  isolation  of  soul  which  is  hard 
to  be  borne  and  indescribable.  But  the  ardor  of  study 
and  the  affairs  of  life  had  kept  his  mind  from  melancholy, 
and,  until  the  meeting  with  Brigit,  he  had  kissed  loneliness 
gladly  each  morning  on  both  her  icy  cheeks.  Suddenly, 
however,  he  had  found  presented  to  him  a  mind  and  a 
nature  in  such  complete  harmony  with  his  own  that  it  had 
seemed  as  though  he  were  the  words  and  she  the  music 
of  one  song.  It  was  the  coming  of  Esther — it  was  the 
fairest  among  women,  and,  at  the  sight  of  her,  he  knew 
that — if  a  man  would  give  all  the  substance  of  his  house 
for  love,  it  would  utterly  be  contemned. 

How  often  had  he  seen  her  as  she  had  appeared  that 
first  day  on  the  staircase  at  Chambord  !  She  had  seemed 
to  him   attired  by  all  the  angels  and  the  graces  !     Yet 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  139 

what  had  she  worn  ?  A  brown  silk  dress  and  a  straw 
bonnet  covered  with  pink  ribbons.  But  it  was  she — the 
promise  of  his  youth — the  mistress  of  his  kingdom  under 
the  sea.  Most  men  had  veiled  portraits  in  their  hearts. 
Most  men  could  close  their  eyes  and  see  the  sacred  days 
their  lips  might  never  tell  of.  Many  a  man  had  loved  a 
woman  well,  j'^et  married  a  name  well,  also.  He  would 
not  be  the  first  dreamer  of  dreams  who  could  share  a  pillow 
with  common  sense.  If  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  were  his  wife 
— he  would  no  longer  be  held  as  an  alien  and  an  advent- 
urer. Such  a  marriage  would  clear  at  one  short  step  full 
twenty  years  of  waiting  and  working.  Twent)''  years  to 
the  good  !  No  more  jostling  with  mean  rivals.  No  more 
insolence  from  inferiors.  No  more  dependence  on  some 
employer's  whims  and  frailties.  No  more  poverty,  no 
more  debts.  No  more  vile  cares  for  the  morrow.  No 
more  degrading  anxieties  for  the  present.  Henceforth, 
the  fight  would  be  on  the  grand  plan — an  heroic  combat 
to  conquest  or  to  the  death. 

"What,  "he  thought,  "shall  1  forget  that  Thy  way  is 
in  the  sea,  and  Thy  path  in  the  great  waters  ?  Shall  I 
walk  on  the  dryland  and  become  a  portion  for  foxes.'* 
Lover  and  friend  hast  Thou  put  far  from  me,  and  mine 
acquaintance  into  darkness — but  among  the  gods  there  is 
none  like  unto  Thee  !  " 

After  that  he  could  meditate  no  longer  on  rich  bountiful 
ladies  with  blonde  curls. 

On  arriving  at  the  maisonnette,  he  was  ushered  into  the 
drawing-room.  The  Viscountess  was  not  there.  His 
eyes,  before  she  made  her  appearance,  had  leisure  to  ex- 
amine the  heavy  gilding,  the  damask  hangings,  the  glass 
candelabra  with  their  sparkling  lustres,  and  the  gay  carpet 
which  represented  large  bouquets  of  pink  roses  on  a  grass- 
green  background.  The  Broadwood  piano  stood  open. 
Her  ladyship  had  evidently  been  playing  an    "arrange- 


I40  THE  vSCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ment  of  airs  from  Rossini."  A  miniature  of  the  late  Vis- 
count in  a  Iieart-shaped  frame  had  a  small  table — adorned 
with  a  copy  of  The  Christian  Year  and  cut  flowers  in 
Church  vases — sacred  to  itself.  A  tiny  wreath  of  yellow 
immortelles  trembled  on  the  wall  above.  The  corner 
seemed  consecrated  to  a  gentle  and  resigned  spirit  of 
hopeful  mourning. 

Robert  heard  a  light  step.     The  pretty  lady  entered. 

She  had  just  returned,  it  seems,  from  a  wedding.  She 
wore,  to  use  the  words  of  the  Post,  which,  the  following 
morning,  contained  a  description  of  her  costume, — 
straight  from  Paris,  —  ''an  under-robe,  co?nprising  high 
corsage,  tight  fitting  sleeves,  and  jupe  of  rose-colored  taffeta. 
Upper  robe  7vith  low  corsage,  open  sleeves  and  paniers  in 
white  foulard  covered  tm'th  a  small  rose-bud  pattern,  and 
bordered  with  a  leaf-shaped  ruche  in  apple-green  taffeta. 
Chapeau  of  greeti  crepe  with  a  diadem  of  moss,  a  single 
rose  posed  on  the  left  side,  with  a  row  of  trailing  Jlowers 
falling  loosely  half-way  over  the  chignon." 

The  two  blonde  curls  trickled  down  to  her  tiny  waist. 
When  she  held  out  her  gracious  hand  and  smiled  at 
Robert  with  her  heavenly  blue  eyes,  he  thought  himself 
of  all  men  the  most  unworthy  of  this  sweet  angel's  pref- 
erence. She  pressed  his  palm  and  floated  with  him  to  a 
couple  of  "  occasional ''  chairs — not  inconveniently  near 
each  other  yet  within  touching  distance. 

"  Have  your  ears  been  burning .? "  she  asked. 

But  she  pitied  his  confusion  and  went  on, — 

"They  look  pale  now.  In  fact,  you  are  altogether 
pale.  Don't  work  so  hard.  We  need  you.  Think  of  «s. 
I  was  speaking  of  you  yesterday.  Ah  !  I  see  you  know 
all  about  it.  Men  know  everything.  Mr.  Disraeli  said 
— May  I  tell  you  .-'  You  won't  mind.''  He  calls  you — 
Launcelot  before  the  Fall!  You  are  not  angry.  But  he 
is  too  wicked.     I  asked  him  what  he  meant.     He  said. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  141 

'  Doesn't  it  express  him  ? '  I  said,  '  How  can  you  !  '  He 
said,  '  No  change  is  so  great  as  to  be  improbable."  He 
is  always  enigmatic.  That  was  the  only  naughty  thing 
he  said.  The  rest  was  wise.  But  I  won't  repeat  the  wise 
things.  You  would  exclaim  'Flattery  !'  I  know  you  — 
don't  I .?  I  never  flatter  men.  Women  will  flatter.  I 
wonder  why.  Arent  they  tiresome.?  I  tell  them  how 
wrong  it  is.  I  say — No,  let  men  flatter  us  :  we  are  weak  : 
we  need  encouragement.  But  men  are  so  gweat ;  they 
see  through  it." 

As  she  spoke  she  sent  a  piercing  shaft  of  flattery  from 
her  eyes.  This,  coupled  with  the  slight  difficulty  she  ex- 
perienced in  pronouncing  her  r's,  would  have  melted  a 
Xenocrates.  The  unhappy  young  man  endeavored  to 
concentrate  his  thoughts  on  the  ivory  handle  of  her  lace 
parasol.  It  had  a  whip  at  the  top.  She  drove  a  pair  of 
ponies  every  afternoon  in  the  park.  The  two  children 
always  accompanied  her — the  boy  in  a  sailor  suit,  the 
little  girl  in  white.  She,  too,  had  long  fair  curls.  The 
three  made  a  ravishing  group.  The  picture,  inspired  by 
the  parasol,  rose  before  Robert. 

"One's  best  friends,"  said  he,  "tell  one  of  one's  mis- 
takes and  shortcomings," 

"  I  like,"  said  she,  softly,  as  though  she  had  not  caught 
the  remark,  "the  Launcelot idea.     It  is  most  expressive." 

"In  what  sense .''  " 

"  He  was  so  stern  with — women,  and  yet  so  true  to — 
them." 

This  use  of  the  plural  seemed  to  her  a  decorous  allusion 
to  the  story  of  Guinevere  and  her  jealousies.  She  watched 
Robert  from  under  her  long  lashes  and  thought,  "  He  is 
either  faithful  to  me  or  to  some  one  else.  No  man  could 
be  such  a  saint  unless  his  heart  were  well  satisfied.  It 
isn't  natural." 

"Revive  the  spirit  of  chivalry,'"  she  entreated.     "You 


142  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

can  do  it.  I  am  praying  about  your  election.  Do  you 
value  a  heretic's  prayers  ?  Will  you  be  a  Papist  always  ? 
You  may  come  back  to  us  some  day.     Bo  !" 

"Now  I  know,"  he  thought,  "why  I  cannot  love 
her." 

"  If  you  think  that  possible,"  said  he,  aloud,  "  you  will 
agree  with  my  strongest  opinion." 

"What  is  that.?" 

"This.  That  any  one  who  has  left  one  Church  for 
another  ought  not  to  marry  !  " 

"Why.?" 

"  Because  such  a  step  may  be  prompted  by  one  of  four 
qualities — restlessness,  a  desire  for  perfection,  a  spirit  of 
inquiry,  or  a  passion  for  truth.  You  will  admit  that  any 
one  of  these  four  things  would  make  marriage  a  hard 
matter." 

"  Ah,  you  have  never  loved  in  earnest  !  " 

"You  think  then,  that,  in  the  practice  of  life,  nature 
and  philosophy  alike  must  yield  to  fate  .?  " 

"Ah,  you  have  never  loved  in  earnest !  " 

"  I  believe  that  love  is  immortal." 

"Ah,  you  have  never  loved  in  earnest !  "  she  repeated, 
for  the  third  time. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  should  have  known,  in  that  case, 
that  it  was  not  immortal .?  " 

She  bestowed  on  him  a  glance  of  exquisite  patience. 

"  Does  it  please  you,"  said  she,  "  to  tease  me  ?  " 

"  I  know  I  am  selfish." 

"You  will  change  at  last,  I  hope." 

"I  fear  not  yet.  I  want  your  opinion  on  a  difficulty. 
Is  there  time  to  tell  it .?  " 

She  gave  him,  from  her  belt,  an  enamelled  watch, 
a  lovely  jewel  in  the  form  of  a  pansy  and  studded  with 
gems. 

"  It  is  yours,"  said  she,  "  while  you  need  it." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  143 

"Oh,  "he  thought,  "if  I  could  love  her,  I  would  worship 
her !  If  I  had  not  seen  a  woman  even  more  adorable, 
how  happy  I  might  have  been  at  this  moment  !  Do  I 
wish  that  I  had  never  met  that  other  woman  ?  No — on 
the  contrary — I  thank  God  without  ceasing  for  having 
shown  me  so  much  beauty  and  virtue." 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  by  a  gentle  sigh  reminded  him  of  her 
presence. 

"You  are  too  kind,"'  said  he,  and  he  permitted  himself 
to  kiss  her  hand. 

Tears  sprang  into  her  eyes.  The  kiss  was  so  cold  and 
the  season  was  Summer. 

"The  story  is  this,"  said  he.  "A  man  met  a  lady  who 
was  beyond  his  reach.  He  seldom  saw  her.  He  rarely 
spoke  to  her.     She  cared  nothing  for  him." 

"How  did  he  know  that  f  "  asked  Pensee,  quickly. 

"She  was  as  good  as  a  Nun." 

"  Oh  ! — then  was  she  elderly — " 

"A  mere  girl.  Would  you  have  ugly  old  women  only 
dedicated  to  God  ?  " 

"Then  she  is  a  Nun." 

"  Did  I  say  so  .?  The  great  point  is  this — she  cared 
nothing  for  the  man.  But  he  knew  that  he  would  never 
love  any  one  else,  and  so  he  took  a  solemn  vow  of  fidelity 
to  this  affection.  Perhaps  the  vow  was  rash — but  you 
will  think — you — with  your  high  and  delicate  standard  of 
honor — you — who  ask  me  to  revive  the  spirit  of  chivalry 
— you  will  think  that  he  could  not  break  that  vow  by  so 
little  as  a  regret !  " 

"  The  temptations  of  life — "  sighed  Pensee. 

"  Oh,  even  under  the  strongest  temptation — even  if  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  women  should  seem  near  him  to  in- 
spire him — " 

"Poor  man  !  What  a  terrible  position  ! — You  say  that 
he  seldom  meets  the  first  woman  ?  " 


144  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  He  may  never  see  her  again." 

"Ah!  But  why  did  he  take  that  fatal  vow  ?  If  he  saw 
that  he  was  in  some  danger  of — being  inspired,  would  not 
that  amount  to  a — certain  yielding?  It  would  be  so  hu- 
man !     Could  one  judge  harshly  in  such  a  case?  " 

"One  may  recognize  an  allurement  and  so  avoid  it." 

She  grew  pale  to  the  lips. 

"We  can  speak  openly,"  said  she.  "I  understand. 
You  mean  yourself      But  why  did  you  take  that  vow  ?  " 

"I  obeyed  an  early  creed." 

"But — is  no  release  possible?  In  your  Church  are 
there  not  ways  and  Dispensations?  Would  a  Protestant 
vow  count  ? " 

"A  vow  is  a  vow  in  every  Church." 

"Oh,  it  was  rash  !  " 

For  a  few  moments  neither  of  them  spoke. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  at  last,  "for  the  other  poor 
lady.  But  I  suppose  you  must  follow  your  conscience. 
Will  that  mean  that  you  can  never  marry  ?  " 

"It  comes  to  that." 

"And  now,"  she  said,  after  another  miserable  silence, 
"about  my  uncle.  He  is  a  celibate  himself.  He,  too, 
once  loved  unwisely.  He  is  a  lonely,  sad  old  man,  full  of 
regrets  and  gout  and  pretending  to  like  pictures  !  You 
will  be  great  friends.  Promise  me  that  you  will  accept 
the  berth.     I  will  write  the  rest  and  he  shall  write." 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  down  at  the  pony- 
carriage  which  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  street  below. 

"  The  darlings  !  "  said  she,  "they  want  their  sugar  !  " 

Robert  and  she  descended  the  stairs  together.  She 
kissed  the  ponies'  cheeks  with  fervor. 

"  How  I  love  animals  !  "  she  exclaimed  :  "they  are  all 
soul  and  no  conscience  !     The  pets  !  " 

With  consummate  skill,  she  managed  to  evade  shaking 
hands  with  Robert  when  he  wished  her  good-bye.     The 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  145 

tide  of  her  heart,  which  had  been  ebbing  away  the  whole 
afternoon,  now  began  to  flow  in.  The  waves  were  dark 
and  tumultuous  and  they  cried  with  a  loud  voice.  As 
Robert  walked  away,  she  noticed  that  a  young  seamstress 
who  happened  to  be  passing  turned  to  look  after  his  hand- 
some face. 

"What  a  brazen  minx  !  "  thought  her  ladyship.  "  And 
he  gave  her  no  encouragement.  How  can  men  keep 
steady  with  such  creatures  about !  " 

And  the  ponies,  which  had  been   kissed  so  tenderly, 

felt  the  whip  more   than  once  during  their  exercise  that 

day. 
10 


146  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER   HI. 

That  same  evening — before  the  dinner  hour — Robert  re- 
ceived an  urgent  summons  from  Disraeli.  He  obeyed  it 
at  once.  When  he  was  shown  into  his  great  friend's  study, 
he  found  him  reading.  At  the  sight  of  the  young  poli- 
tician, he  put  away  his  book  and  closed  his  eye-glasses. 

' '  Are  you, "  said  he,  with  one  of  his  piercing  smiles,  ' '  a 
Manichean  ?  " 

This  salutation  was  certainly  unexpected. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that  ?  "  said  Robert. 

"Are  you  forbidding  marriage  and  commanding  to  ab- 
stain from  meats  ? " 

"By  no  means." 

"  But  you  will  die  a  bachelor.?  " 

"I  hope  not." 

"That  is  better — although  I  say  nothing  in  disparage- 
ment of  a  single  life.  Of 'the  two  men  I  know  who  were 
most  eloquent  against  the  celibacy  of  your  priests — one 
was  living  with  a  lady  not  his  wife,  and  the  other  had 
been  divorced  !  But  beware  of  the  tyranny  of  a  false 
ideal — an  ideal  based  on  an  unreal  knowledge  of  human 
nature.  It  will  sear  your  will  with  hot  iron  and  melt  your 
soul  like  wax  over  a  flame.  You  are  not  a  monk — you 
are  a  layman.  Don't  make  the  monk's  renunciation — 
when  you  have  got  neither  the  rules  nor  the  compensa- 
tions of  his  life.  May  I  say  one  thing.?  Is  the  situation 
hopeless }  " 

"It  is  improbable,"  said  Robert,  flushing. 

"Then,"   said  Disraeli,   kindly,    "avoid  all  books  on 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  147 

love  and  when  you  hear  sweet  music  say  to  yourself, 
'  Twiddle,  twaddle,  twiddle,  twaddle  ! '  Wrap  your  soul 
in  the  linsey-wolsey  of  morality  and  then  you  may  order 
your  hair-shirts  lined  with  silk  !  You  must  get  rid  of  all 
this  Medisevalism.  The  world  judges  of  the  present  by 
the  present  and  not  by  the  past.  Great  Pan  is  dead  ;  the 
gods  have  gone  and  the  Round  Table  too  has  vanished. 
You  may  as  well  seek  to  found  an  order  of  Vestal  Virgins 
as  to  mould  your  life  on  the  principles  of  Amadis  and 
Oriana.  How  charming  they  are  too  !  How  touching  ! 
The  modern  passion  for  truth  may  perhaps  be  compared 
to  the  quest  of  the  Holy  Grail — but  what  a  difference  !  " 

"  I  don't  see,"  said  Robert,  "why,  at  any  epoch  of 
civilization,  a  man  should  marry  one  woman  when  his 
mind  is  fixed  on  another  ?  " 

''And,  in  the  morning,  behold-'  it  was  Leah-'"  said 
Disraeli  dryly.  "  However,  have  your  own  way.  We  have 
grave  though  possibly  latent  agreements  in  principle  ! 
It  would  never  do  for  us  to  quarrel  about  non-essentials. 
In  the  mean  while,  make  friends  of  the  women.  The  sex 
is  dangerous,  but  it  stands  well  in  the  Divine  Favor  ! 
Read  this  letter  from  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  and  then  pray  for 
a  good  death." 

It  ran  as  follows  : — 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Disraeli, — Your  interesting  friend  has 
called  upon  me.  P'ortunately  I  was  at  home.  I  feel  sure  that 
lie  is  the  very  person  for  poor  uncle.  I  have  known  Mr.  Orange, 
IN  A  WAY,  for  months.  This  afternoon  he  told  me  the  sad  story 
of  his  rash  vow  of  celibacy  or  something.  He  seems  to  regret 
it  most  bitterly.  I  have  always  suspected  that  he  had  some 
severe  and  secret  trouble  preying  upon  his  mind.  His 
manner  is  sometimes  utterly  unnatural.  I  do  wish  that  he 
knew  the  good  Bishop.  He  must  come  back  to  OUR  Church 
and  tlien  he  may  perhaps  yet  find  happiness.  He  is  too  young 
and  brilliant  to  have  his  life  spoilt  in  this  SHOCKING  manner. 
These  things  make  one  quite  HATE  the  Papists.  They  set  one 
aloof  from  all  human  affection.     Can  this  be  right  ?     But  Mr. 


148  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Orange  seems  to  be  tied  to  some  early  rather  fantastic  attach- 
ment. I  am  so  sorry  for  him,  and  so  glad  that  you  mentioned 
him  to  me.  Uncle  will  be  so  grateful,  although  he  has  NEARLY 
engaged  Lord  Sav^ernake's  third  son — the  SANDY  one. 

"  What  a  mob  and  RABBLE  at  the  F.  O.  last  night  !  Where 
DO  the  Liberals  find  their  women  ?  O,  HOW  uncharitable  !  I 
wish  I  had  time  to  tear  this  up,  but  they  ARE  frumps,  aren't 
they  ?  Please  forgive  this  stupid  letter — MUCH  too  long.  I 
never  can  write  nicely  to  great  men.  They  frighten  me  out  of 
my  wits.  Please  don't  say  clever,  sarcastic,  TRUE,  unkind 
things  about  poor  little  me  ! — I  am,  yours  sincerely, 

"  Pensee  Fitz  Rewes." 

Neither  of  the  two  men  could  repress  a  smile  at  this 
artful  communication. 

"  Is  she  not  a  dear  darling .?  "  said  Disraeli.  "Could 
the  average  natural  man — unaided  by  grace — resist 
her  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  Robert,  with  the  utmost  good 
humor. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Disraeli,  "you  know  what  was 
said  of  Ulysses — Vetula?n  suam  prcetidit  Inimortalitati — he 
preferred  his  old  woman  to  immortality.  Some  men  are 
by  constitution  constant." 

"True,"  said  Robert,  "you  may  therefore  attribute 
my  folly,  rather  to  my  native  constitution  than  to  the 
ideals  of  romance  !  " 

"  By-the-by,"  said  Disraeli,  "I  have  received  a  letter 
from  Wrexham  Parflete.  He  has  gone  on  a  journey  to 
the  Canary  Isles  with  an  inebriate  Viscount!  He  says 
nothing  about  his  unfortunate  wife.  Have  you  heard 
anything  of  her?  " 

"  She  is  living,  for  the  present,  at  a  Convent,"  said 
Robert. 

He  was  greatly  astonished  at  the  news  he  had  just 
heard.  He  wondered  whether  Brigit  had  received  any 
message  from  her  husband.  In  that  case — would  she 
leave  London  .'     It  had  been   so  much  to  know  that  she 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  149 

Was,  at  least,  seeing  each  day  as  he  saw  it.  Reserved  in 
the  ordinary  transactions  of  life,  no  one  knew  better  than 
Robert  the  right  use  of  that  easily  abused  quality  known 
as  open-heartedness.  He  said  nothing  more,  but  he  made 
no  effort  to  disguise  the  gloomy  thoughts  which  were 
now  afflicting  his  soul. 

"  I  fear  there  is  much  un happiness  in  store  for  that 
poor  lady,"  said  Disraeli.  "She,  too,  must  make  friends 
of  women — and  her  own  virtues.     No  man  can  help  her." 

"  I  think  that  is  clear,"  replied  Orange. 

"  In  trivial  matters,"  said  Disraeli,  "  friends  are  always 
ready  to  consult  each  other.  They  make  what  they  are 
doing — or  are  going  to  do — a  subject  of  frequent  con- 
versation. They  consider  and  discuss  together  every 
unimportant  detail  of  their  lives.  But  when  a  serious 
problem  presents  itself,  men  at  once  grow  cautious,  and, 
at  the  ver)'-  moment  when  advice  or  support  is  most 
needed,  every  one  resolves  to  thmk  for  himself.  If  I 
know  a  little  about  anything,"  he  added,  "it  is  the 
simplicity  of  the  hidden  life.  Motives,  excuses,  argument 
and  philosophy  belong  to  the  things  that  are  temporal. 
They  pass  with  the  fashion  or  die  in  tlieir  utterance. 
They  display  the  education  of  a  man — never  the  man's 
heart.  Now  you  are  a  student  and  a  scholar.  Your 
intellect  has  been  trained  to  a  high  pitch  of  technical 
excellence.  Surely  in  the  present  instance,  if  you  trust 
me  at  all,  you  can  give  me  your  confidence." 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  an  appeal  so  delicate  and 
yet  so  grave. 

"I  will  be  frank,"  said  Orange,  at  once.  "I  hate 
talking  about  myself,  yet  I  suppose  there  are  occasions 
on  which  one  must  express  one's  opinions  or  sink  into 
contempt.  You  are  right.  Mrs.  Parflete  is  the  lady.  I 
may  admit  it  because  I  know  that  her  thoughts  are  far 
indeed  from  me  I  " 


ISO  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  But  all  this  is  fantastic,"  said  the  older  man,  "  this  is 
an  obsession.  This  is  not  the  love  that  can  be  cured  by 
hunger,  time  or  the  halter  !  It  is  a  possession — a  form 
of  delusion — a  habit  of  thought  which  the  French  so  well 
describe  as  I' idee  fixe.  The  familiar  examples  of  Dante 
and  Beatrice,  of  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  and  St.  Clare  rise  up 
before  me.  Flaubert  has  just  given  us  a  whole  treatise 
on  the  subject  in  his  Education  Sentimeiitale.  You  re- 
member his  hero's  peculiar  devotion  to  Madame 
Arnoux?" 

The  novel  in  question — which  had  then  recently  been 
published — lay  on  the  table  near  his  elbow. 

"If  we  may  believe  this,"  he  continued,  touching  the 
yellow  cover,  "such  friendships,  in  our  century  at  least, 
cannot  be  said  to  elevate  the  mind  !  " 

"I  cannot  help  thinking  that  Flaubert  will  as  little  in- 
fluence your  views  as  he  would  mine.  He  has  the  morals 
of  a  sick  devil  and  the  philosophy  of  a  retired  dancing 
master  !  " 

"You  young  critics  are  very  severe!  I  won't  say, 
however,  that  you  are  always  wrong.  Now  let  me  show 
you  how  well  I  understand  Platonics  !  The  ordinary 
marriage  is  sometimes  regarded  as  a  prefiguration  of  the 
mystical  union  of  souls.  There  are  some  beings,  how- 
ever, who  seem  to  reach,  at  the  very  outset,  the  ultimate 
condition  of  ideal  happiness.  To  them,  the  thought  of 
any  commoner  relationship  would  be — not  a  fall  only — 
but  an  impossibility  !  Such  beings  are  rare — though  not 
so  rare  as  many  would  believe.  They  are  seldom  under- 
stood. It  is  always  unwise  to  quote  them  to  the  mass 
of  men  and  women.  The  counsels  of  perfection,  as  you 
know,  are  fit  only  for  those  who  are  able  to  hear  such 
sayings.  But  I  will  own  this  :  although  it  is  the  penalty 
of  saints  and  poets  to  suffer  much  more  than  vulgar 
mortals,  it  is  also  given  to  them  to  experience  joys  of 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  151 

which  the  ordinary  creature  is  as  ignorant  as  he  is  in- 
capable. If  I  have  admitted  these  things  to  your  satis- 
faction, tell  me  your  story.     If,  on  the  other  hand — " 

"I  will  tell  it  at  once,"  said  Robert,  "and  you  will 
soon  see  that  I  make  no  claim  to  any  mystical  senti- 
ments. It  is  a  common  case.  I  met  Mrs.  Parflete  first 
at  Chambord.  We  spent  two  whole  days  together.  It 
fell  usually  to  me  to  walk  by  her  side — for  Parflete  and 
the  others  were  bent  on  card-playing  and  the  races.  As 
I  remember  it  all — and  I  remember  it  as  seldom  as  pos- 
sible now — she  and  I  talked  very  little,  but  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  I  was  restless  except  when  I  found  myself 
with  her.  Although  I  was  not  always  thinking  of  her — 
although  I  was  often  absorbed  in  my  work — although  my 
attention  was  frequently  claimed  by  the  other  members 
of  the  party,  I  was  conscious  that  she  exerted  an  almost 
magical  power  of  attraction  over  me.  To  be  near  her 
was  enough.  That,  whether  silent  or  in  conversation, 
we  should  be  together — was  the  strong  need.  It  seemed 
that  we  were  not  two  persons  but  one  person.  If  she 
had  walked  out  alone,  I  am  certain  that,  without  so 
meaning,  I  must  have  followed  her  and  found  her. 
There  is  nothing  new  in  all  this.  The  everlasting  hills 
are  but  a  few  days  older  !  I  did  not  find  anything  either 
dishonorable  or  wrong  in  my  state  of  mind.  I  realized, 
nevertheless,  that  it  was  profoundly  dangerous.  I  left 
Chambord  and  I  saw  no  hope  then  of  ever  meeting  her 
on  earth  again.  But  the  event  was  against  me.  She 
came  with  Parflete  to  Paris  where  I  was.  Again  we  met 
each  other  constantly  for  several  days.  Again  I  learned 
that  she  had  every  quality  which  most  appealed  to  me — 
which  most  appeals  to  every  man." 

"True,"  said  Disraeli ;  "her  modesty,  her  beauty  and 
good  sense  could  not  fail  to  make  a  very  deep  impres- 
sion." 


152  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"And  then  her  tragic  history,"  said  Robert — "the  help- 
lessness of  her  position  and  that  husband  !  She  would 
have  roused  the  spirit  of  a  swineherd  !  Her  voice  was 
charming,  and  when  she  sang,  all  other  earthly  creatures 
except  herself  seemed  pests  to  me  !  " 

"  How  easy  it  is,"  observed  Disraeli,  "  to  be  faithful  to 
a  woman  one  loves  !  " 

"  I  left  Paris.  I  came  to  London.  I  tried  to  banish 
her  from  my  thoughts.  Then  she  wrote  to  me — as  you 
know,  about  her  trouble.  It  fell  to  me  to  see  her  once 
more.  She  seemed  no  longer  young.  Care  and  fatigue 
had  left  such  marks  on  her  face,  that,  for  a  moment,  I 
felt  she  had  lost  all  her  beauty.  It  made  no  difference. 
She  was  to  me  the  more  perfect  for  the  loss.  We  had  a 
conversation — wholly  about  her  husband.  Once  she  re- 
ferred to  an  excursion  we  had  made  to  St.  Cloud.  She 
spoke  of  the  sunshine  there  and  of  our  walk  through  the 
trees,  and  how  we  had  all  sat  on  the  Terrace  thinkine 
that  the  Summer  was  still  to  come  !  With  that  remem- 
brance of  a  happy  day,  her  prettiness,  like  a  swallow 
when  the  Winter  is  past,  flew  back — and  stayed.  I  re- 
mained one  hour  with  her,  then  the  bell  rang  for  Bene- 
diction and  I  said  good-bye.  I  have  not  seen  her 
since." 

"Nor  have  you  passed  her  Convent  gates.?"  asked 
Disraeli. 

"I  have  often  passed  them,"  said  her  young  man, 
blushing — "but  she  will  never  know  that." 

"You  remind  me,"  observed  Disraeli,  "  of  a  French 
priest  I  once  knew  who  told  me  that  he  had  not  risen 
at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  for  fifty  years  in  order 
to  think  like  other  people  !  Your  life  has  been  so 
colored  by  your  early  meditations,  that,  as  I  hear  you 
talk,  I  seem  to  be  living  in  the  Middle  Ages." 

•*  Why  ?  "  asked  Robert ;  ' '  my  one  point  is  common- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


153 


place  enough — since  I  may  not  marry  the  woman  1  want, 

I  will  remain  single  !  " 

"  I  am  really  sorry  for  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  !  " 

"  That  reminds  me  that  yon  have  asked  me  to  pray  for 

a  good  death.      Will  you  come  with  me  to  a  service  given 

for  that  very  purpose  ?  We  call  it  the  Devotion  of  the  Bojia 

Mors,  and  it  is  held  on  tlie  first  Sunday  of  each   month. 

It  will  mean  an  hour  of  your  time." 

"I  will   come  with   pleasure,"  said  Disraeli,  and  they 

parted  on  the  best  terms. 


154  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

In  the  mean  time,  Reckage  was  waiting  at  Almouth 
House  for  Robert's  return.  They  had  arranged  to  devote 
that  evening  to  a  prolonged  consideration  of  the  speech 
on  Erastia7iistn.  His  lordship's  manuscript  was  spread 
out  on  the  library  table.  His  blue  books  had  been  un- 
packed. Some  were  strewn  on  the  floor,  others,  scattered 
on  the  chair  and  sofas,  were  laid  open  at  marked  places. 
He  was  pacing  the  room  with  an  old  volume  of  Hansard 
in  his  hand  when  a  footman,  bearing  a  card  on  a  salver, 
disturbed  him. 

A  lady  had  called  to  see  Mr.  Orange.  He  (the  servant) 
had  never  seen  the  lady  before.  She  was  very  young, 
not  too  proud  but  rather  haughty.  She  was,  to  his  idea, 
'iome  one  particular.  She  had  given  no  name.  She  had 
written  Mr.  Orange's  name  on  the  card — which  was  other- 
wise blank.  She  had  said  that  she  could  wait  till  he 
came  in.     She  was  waiting,  therefore,  in  the  Red  Saloon. 

"The  Red  Saloon  is  depressing,"  said  Lord  Reckage, 
who,  where  strange,  young,  proud  and  beautiful  ladies 
were  concerned,  was  not  without  feeling.      "Show  her  in 

here  !  " 

He  gathered  his  papers  together,  and  then  made  as 
though  he  were  about  to  leave  the  library,  when  the  visitor 
entered.  He  raised  his  eyes  respectfully.  It  was  Par- 
flete's  wife.  There  could  be  no  doubt  on  that  point.  The 
height,  the  graceful  carriage,  the  imperious  air,  the  pretty 
face  were  unmistakable.     Orange  had  described  her  well. 

"  Pray  do  not  allow   me  to  disturb  you,"  said  the  lady. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  155 

Lord  Reckage  bowed,  and  halted.  Brigit,  however, 
offered  no  further  remark  but  sat  down,  clasped  her  hands 
and  sank  into  a  reverie. 

"Perhaps,"  said  his  lordship,  "it  would  amuse  you  to 
see  some  of  the  pictures.     The  gallery  is  here." 

He  opened  a  small  door,  which  had  been  made  to  rep- 
resent a  part  of  the  book-case.  Brigit,  who  had  at  once 
guessed  his  identity,  thanked  him  and  obeyed  the  invita- 
tion. 

"Here  are  some  original  drawings  by  Watteau,"  ex- 
plained Reckage.  "  The  Poussin  and  the  two  Claudes  are 
over  there.  Would  you  like  to  see  them  first  .'*  That  is  a 
Veronese — a  fairly  good  example.  I  never  cared  for  the 
Titian,  but  I  am  very  friendly  indeed  with  thisCarpaccio. 
The  Tintoretto  is  a  favorite.     We  lend  it  often." 

"My  thoughts  are  far  from  these,"  thought  Brigit.  "  I 
wish  he  would  leave  me  !  " 

But  she  followed  him. 

"  Do  you  know  the  farm  where  Poussin  lived  on  the 
Flaminian  Way — near  Rome  ?  asked  Lord  Reckage. 

"I  have  never  been  to  Rome." 

"Pray  go  soon — before  the  Italians  destroy  it.  They 
are  the  least  Roman  now  of  all  civilized  peoples  !  This  is 
not  a  good  day  for  the  larger  Claude.  I  hope  you  admire 
him.  All  ladies  admire  Claude.  He  is  a  Romantic.  I 
prefer  him  to  the  gloomy  fellows." 

"Oh!"  thought  Brigit,  "if  he  would  not  talk  so 
much  !  " 

"  There  is  a  new  school  coming  in.  Every  line  means 
a  lot,  but  there  are  not  many  lines.  Some  critics  call  it 
humbug.  I  don't  go  so  far.  I  should  not  mind  having  a 
Whistler.  I  believe  he  has  a  future.  He  interests  me. 
Thafs  a  great  thing.  Then  there  is  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
School.  That  is  rather  alarming.  I  think  one  should 
strike  the  medium.     Raphael  himself,  for  instance,  has 


156  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

what  I  call  a  happy  manner.     After  all,  the  chief  aim  of 
art  is  to  please." 

"Who  is  that?  "  exclaimed  Brigit,  suddenly,  with  much 
animation.     "  What  a  fine  head  !     May  I  go  closer  ?  " 

She  pointed  to  a  canvas  which  stood  on  an  easel  at  the 
end  of  the  Gallery. 

"That  is  a  portrait  of — Orange." 

"Oh!" 

"  He  is  sitting  for  some  new  Frenchman.  It  promises 
to  be  a  success." 

"  I  am  no  judge  of  pictures,  "said  Brigit,  drawing  back. 
"  From  this  distance  I  merely  saw  the  outline.  It  seemed 
striking — for  the  moment." 

"  Come  nearer.  If  you  stand  here — it  is  Orange  him- 
self. The  artist  has  caught  his  expression  marvellously. 
Observe  the  eyes.  You  would  swear  that  he  was  defy- 
ing the  devil  and  all  his  works.  Orange  should  have 
been  a  priest — he's  a  born  ecclesiastic  !  The  head  is 
most  characteristic — and  the  chin  !  " 

"Yes." 

"I  always  look  at  Orange  when  I  want  a  change  of 
century  !  My  aunt  used  to  say  that  he  ought  to  be 
painted  as  St.  Augustine.  She  says  that  he  is  better  look- 
ing than  five  Byrons.  Poor  Byron  got  fat.  Robert  must 
never  get  fat.  I  am  glad  you  like  the  picture.  The  one 
above  you  is  probably  a  Romney — but  we  cannot  prove 
its  authenticity.  That  is  why  we  hang  it  rather  high. 
Ah  !  you  are  still  taken  by  Orange's  portrait." 

"Am  I?  "  said  Brigit. 

"He's  a  dear  fellow." 

"  Is  the  mouth  quite  right  ?  " 

"You  see  it  is  still  unfinished." 

"I  see." 

"  The  pose  is  so  good." 

"Very  good.     But  his  shoulders  are  broader," 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  157 

'*  So  they  are — now  you  call  my  attention  to  it." 

"And — don't  you  think  his  whole  expression  is  more 
commanding.''  " 

"Perhaps  it  does  not  convey  his  will.  He  has  a  will 
of  iron — but  women,  as  a  rule,  do  not  know  that.  He 
has  a  way  with  them." 

Brigit  sighed. 

"There  is  always  to  me  something  sad  about  the  por- 
trait of  a  friend,"  said  she. 

They  heard  a  step  on  the  gallery  floor. 

"Here  is  the  original,"  said  Lord  Reckage,  and  he 
watched  the  meeting  between  them  with  a  frankly  in- 
quisitive air.  His  curiosity  did  not  go  unrewarded. 
Orange  was  paler  than  death.  Brigit  grew  as  white  as 
her  gown.  Reckage,  with  much  reluctance,  left  them, 
but  they  did  not  notice  him  as  he  went  out. 


158  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

**  Is  it  you  ?  "  said  Robert,  touching  her  hand. 

"Yes,  it  is  I.      Have  you  forgotten  me?  " 

"Then  it  is  you  ?  " 

"  Do  I  look  strange  ?     Have  I  altered  ?     It  is  I." 

"  Is  it  possible  !     You  !  " 

"  But  why  do  you  think  I  came?" 

"Why?     Because  you  were  sent  here. 

"How  did  you  guess  that?  My  husband  told  me  to 
call  upon  you  with  this  letter.  I  do  not  know  what  he 
has  written,  but,  in  my  instructions,  he  says  that  you  will 
arrange  everything.  He  tells  me  I  must  go  to  Spain.  Is 
it  a  long  journey  ?  " 

"Not  a  very  long  journey.     Are  you  tired?  " 

"Very  tired." 

"Poor  child  \" 

"Is  the  letter  long?" 

"I  will  see,"  he  replied,  breaking  the  seal. 

"I  will  be  quiet  while  you  read  it,"  said  Brigit,  and  her 
eyes  wandered  to  the  portrait  on  the  easel. 

This  was  the  letter  : — 

"  Off  Gibraltar. 

"  My  dear  Robert, — You  are  the  one  man  in  the  world  on 
whom  I  can  rely.  I  am  worn  away  with  grief  and  am  become 
a  coffin  of  cares.  Get  my  poor  wife  away  from  the  Nuns.  They 
are  kind  blissful  souls,  but  she  can  be  of  no  use  to  me  mewed  up 
in  a  Convent.  The  Archduke  is  prepared  to  behave  in  the  most 
handsome  manner.  He  is  proud  of  her.  He  is  disappointed  in 
the  Imperial  children,  and  my  wife  is  certainly  a  Princess  in  ten 
thousand.  She  is  far  cleverer,  too,  than  any  one  would  suppose 
and  POLITICALLY  she  could  have  a  great  career.  She  is  the  very 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  159 

woman  that  is  wanted,  but,  unless  we  take  prompt  measures, 
this  religious  atmosphere  will  ruin  her  mind  and  she  will  be  fit 
for  nothing  !  I  know  the  Countess  Des  Escas  with  whom  she 
can  live  at  Madrid,  for  the  present,  with  the  greatest  advantage 
to  herself  and  me.  Befriend  her,  Robert.  She  needs  friends. 
Would  God  that  she  could  join  me.  In  time  all  may  yet  be 
justified.  I  am  with  the  poor  Viscount  Soham.  He  drinks. 
What  a  pity  !  His  parents  (old  acquaintances)  have  entreated 
me  to  take  him  under  my  charge.  We  may  be  en  voyage  for 
eighteen  months.  I  am  writing  very  fully  to  my  wife.  If  I  have 
been  able  to  help  you  to  your  present  good  fortune  and  position, 
do  not  fail  me  now. — Yours  ever  affec,  dear  Robert, 

"  Wrexham  Parflete." 

"  May  I  see  it  ?"  asked  Brigit,  when  he  had  finished. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  it  ?  " 

"Yes." 

She  took  the  letter,  read  it  swiftly,  and  reddened  to  her 
eyes. 

"I  will  not  go  to  Spain,"  said  she,  "nor  could  you  ad- 
vise me  to  go." 

"  I  fear  I  must." 

"What  !" 

"I  fear  I  must.  You  cannot  remain  with  the  Nuns 
against  his  will." 

"  He  is  not  here  to  protect  me.  He  leaves  me.  I  am 
alone  :  I  have  no  home.  There  is  no  place  for  me  but  a 
Convent.  Yet  you,  you — O,  you  !  would  have  me  turn 
adventuress." 

"  I  say  that  you  should  obey  your  husband  so  long  as 
he  does  not  ask  you  to  do  evil." 

"  I  can  read  as  much  in  any  little  book  !  To  do  evil  ! 
Do  you  think  that  man  could  tell  me  to  do  anything  good  } 
I  begin  to  mistrust  him.  Begin,  did  I  say.?  How  long 
can  one  lie  to  oneself .?  I  have  "tried  to  respect  him.  I 
cannot.  I  have  tried  to  think  kindly  of  him.  I  cannot. 
I  have  tried  noon,  night  and  morning  to  pray  for  him  and 
I  cannot.      He  is  a  traitor.      He  tells  falsehoods.      I  have 


i6o  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

my  own  conscience.  It  is  not  his  conscience,  nor  your 
conscience.  It  is  mine.  A  Spanish  Countess,  indeed  ! 
I  want  none  of  them.     I  shall  remain  with  the  Nuns." 

"  You  told  me  in  Paris  that  you  did  not  wish  to  spend 
your  life  in  a  Convent." 

"True.  But  my  life  was  different  then.  The  world 
was  pleasant  in  those  days.  It  would  be  pleasant  still, 
if  I  had  a  father  I  could  own  and  a  husband  I  could  men- 
tion.    But  it  is  not  so,  and  I  must  hide  myself." 

"You  are  too  proud." 

"  You  suffer,  too,"  she  said.  "We  have  done  nothing, 
you  and  I.  We  have  asked  for  no  more  than  to  serve 
God  and  save  our  souls.  And  what  has  happened.?  I 
have  a  birthright  I  may  not  claim.  I  must  be  looked  on 
to  the  end  of  my  days  with  doubt  and  suspicion.  Men 
will  make  foolish  faces  at  me.  Women  will  ask  to  know 
my  story." 

"  I  have  much  to  bear  also,"  said  Robert. 

"  In  the  other  world,"  said  Brigit,  abruptly,  "shall  we 
know  one  another  ?  " 

"  For  certain." 

"Then  I  will  so  live  that  I  shall  meet  you  there.  Do 
not  look  at  me  to-day.  You  might  not  recognize  me 
when  you  see  me  happy." 

"  I  would  have  you  happy  now." 

"That  cannot  be.  No  one  is  happy  except  God.  .  .  . 
When  should  I  go  ?  " 

"Where? "said  Robert. 

"To  Spain." 

"  To-morrow  or  the  next  day." 

"  I  will  take  a  servant  with  me,  and  when  I  get  there 
I  shall  say,  •  I  am  come  because  a  true  friend  bade  me 
go  and  not  because  of  any  obedience  to  my  husband  1  ' 
You  look  vexed.  But  I  mean  every  word.  I  am  wretch- 
ed— beyond  all  telling,  wretched — and  through  no  fault 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  i6i 

of  my  own.  Others  are  glad — and  for  no  virtue.  I  do 
not  remember  Job.  I  will  lament  and  mourn,  and  no 
one — least  of  all  you — shall  comfort  me.  Sorrow  does 
not  pass  away  because  you  call  '  Farewell'  to  it." 

"Why  do  you  speak  like  this  when  you  know  how 
little  I  can  do  to  help  you  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  am  neither  good 
nor  patient — because  I  had  rather  be  thought  worse  than 
I  am  than  better  than  I  am.  Do  not  think  well  of  me. 
My  light  is  all  darkness.  That  I  love  God  above  every- 
thing and  every  one  is  true,  but  shall  I  lie  to  Him  and  say 
that  my  lot  is  not  bitter  ?  " 

"Are  these  the  words  you  leave  with  me  now  when 
we  see  each  other,  it  may  be,  for  the  last  time  ? " 

"I  have  no  better  things  to  offer.  I  cannot  be  brave 
to-day.  Forget  my  weak  sayings  and  ask  God  to  forgive 
them.  But — if  there  should  be  no  other  world  and  if  this 
one  is  so  desolate  !  O,  Robert,  I  have  faith,  and  although 
I  am  a  coward,  I  would  die  for  it !  Once  I  dreamt  I 
was  in  Heaven,  It  was  not  like  this — and  yet,  I  woke 
up  crying.     Even  in  our  sleep  we  must  shed  tears." 

She  held  out  her  hands. 

"  Help  me  to  go,"  she  said  ;  "  my  heart  for  some  days 
now  has  been  disloyal  to  me — for  I  am  not  of  those  who 
draw  back  into  servitude.  Help  me  to  go — "  and  she 
could  add  no  more. 

They  both  stood  in  silence  for  a  little — looking  out  of 
the  window  on  to  the  Green  Park  opposite. 

"I  have  loved  London,"  sighed  Brigit ;  "I  have  loved 
it  better  than  all  other  cities.  And  next  to  it  I  love  your 
kingdom  under  the  sea  which,  please  God,  shall  some 
time  be  dry  land." 

They  wished  each  other  good-bye.     He  led  the  way  to 
the  Hall  where  her  maid  was  waiting — half  asleep — for 
her  coming.     Robert  said  no  more  and  the  two  women 
II 


i6i  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

left  the  house  together.  He  followed  them  all  the  way 
till  they  reached  their  destination,  but  Brigit  did  not  see 
him.  The  time  was  Summer  :  the  hour,  nine  in  the  even- 
ing. Day,  in  the  sky,  was  blushing  her  farewell,  and 
Robert  remembered  that  the  blue  sea  off  Brittany  would 
be  looking  up  with  still  impatience  for  the  advent  of  the 
stars.  He  paced  the  pavement  outside  the  Convent  all 
that  night  until  the  dawn.  There  arc  thoughts  which  are 
companions  having  a  language,  and  there  are  other 
thoughts  which  rest  in  a  painful  sleep  upon  our  souls  till 
the  dumb  weight  of  them  brings  us  to  dust.  Grief,  de- 
spair, the  desire  of  beauty,  the  sorrow  of  partings,  the 
thirst  of  ambition,  the  attachment  to  friends  are  not  small 
contemptible  weaknesses.  Va?iitas  vanitatum  omnia  vanitas 
is  the  cry  when  we  hear  it  in  the  market-place — not  of 
wisdom — but  of  weariness.  It  is  uttered  in  the  qualms  of 
satiety  and  disappointment  :  it  does  not  come  from  the 
great  spirit  of  renunciation.  A  strong  man  has  living 
blood  in  his  veins  and  he  shows  his  character  not  by 
despising — still  less  in  denying  his  emotions— but  in  exalt- 
ing them.  And  that  is  no  light  achievement.  The  labor 
of  it  is  not  until  the  evening  only,  but  for  the  watches  of 
the  night  and  the  early  morning  and  the  noon-day  and 
for  all  the  Seasons  and  for  all  the  year  and  for  all  the 
fasts  and  for  all  the  Feasts. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  lo^ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Robert's  Journal,  at  this  period,  presents  a  blank.  His 
days  at  Almouth  House  were  ended.  That  mansion, 
pending  Lord  Reckage's  courtship  of  the  heiress,  was 
closed.  The  lady  was  capricious,  and  the  upholsterers 
waited,  not  idly,  for  the  pronouncement  of  their  call.  In 
the  meanwhile,  patterns  of  silk  brocade,  in  tender  shades, 
were  being  ordered  from  Paris.  Reckage  himself  retired 
to  a  Villa  on  the  Thames.  It  may  have  been  painful  to  him 
to  witness  the  straits  of  suspense  and  humiliation  to  which 
his  friend,  a  proud  man,  was  reduced.  Berenville,  too, 
left  London.  Robert  engaged  some  lodgings  on  a  top 
floor  in  Vigo  Street.  The  question  of  the  Secretaryship 
remained,  for  some  time,  undecided.  The  date  was  fast 
drawing  near  for  the  Norbet  Royal  election.  Some  light 
is  thrown  on  the  difficulties  of  the  situation  by  a  curious 
document — since  found  among  the  Orange  MSS. — which 
appears  to  have  been  addressed  but  never  posted  to  Reck- 
age. We  may  infer  that  Robert  sat  down  in  loneliness  one 
evening  and  wrote  in  the  old  intimate  strain  to  his  friend. 
Then,  perhaps,  he  remembered,  when  it  was  nearly 
finished,  that  the  confidence  between  Lord  Reckage  and 
himself  was  no  longer  all  that  it  had  once  been.  So  the 
letter  was  not  sent.     It  runs  as  follows  : — 

"  i6b  Vigo  Street, 

••  I  have  not  yet  told  you  that  I  followed  the  Lady  to  Spain  in 
order  to  assure  myself  that  all  was  well.  She  did  not  know  it. 
I  think  she  will  never  know  it.  From  careful  inquiries  at  Ma- 
drid, I  have  learned  that  the  Spanish  Countess  is   a   person  of 


i64  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

some  piety  and  many  adventures.  She  has  social  influence,  and , 
so  far,  has  not  abused  it.  Existence  in  her  household  could  be 
neither  dull  nor  constrained.  But  the  Lady's  mind  is  still  fixed 
on  the  Convent  at  Tours.  I  wish  that  she  were  there.  The 
cloistered  life — in  its  perpetual  protest  against  all  that  is  mean 
and  feverish,  might  indeed  be  called  monotonous,  but  it  is  the 
monotony  of  the  cry  before  the  Throne — itself  unchanging — 
Sanctus,  Sanctus,  Sanctus,  Dominus   Deus   omnipotens, 

QUI  ERAT,  ET  QUI  EST   ET   QUI   VENTURUS    EST. — After   leaving 

Madrid,  I  journeyed  on  to  Barcelona.  From  thence,  I  made  a 
pilgrimage  to  Manresa  and  the  Benedictine  Abbey  at  Mont 
Serrat  where  St.  Ignatius  long  ago  hung  up  his  sword.  I  had 
no  sword  to  offer,  so  I  plucked  out  the  wings  of  my  soul  and 
left  them  on  the  altar  steps  and  said — "  Hereafter  I  will  crawl. 
Let  this  be  a  penance  !  " 
"But — 

dcoiq  fiEv  Kav  6  fiTjdev  uv  ofiov 
KpuTog  naTaKT/jaaiT'.* 

Am  I  a  slave  to  ambition  or  to  pride  ?  I  know  not.  If  one  were 
to  preach  at  me  till  his  tongue  grew  worn  to  the  stump,  I  could 
not  tell.  But  if  you  might  see  me  now,  you  would  own  that  I 
was  humbled.  Of  all  my  books — six  only  remain.  How  many 
pounds  of  chops  would  you  think  one  could  buy  for  the  price  oi 
an  Horae,  MS.  on  vellum,  with  miniatures,  Saec.  XV.  Pf  Must 
I  bring  myself  to  take  its  equivalent  in  butcher's  meat?  The 
election  will  cost  at  least  a  thousand  pounds.  I  have  the  sum 
in  the  bank — a  sacred  treasure.  People  seem  to  think  that  I 
am  a  silly  fellow  who  has  forgotten  himself  If  I  were  not 
vain,  I  would  not  mind  this.  Now  and  again,  I  think  of  the 
days  when  I  mimicked  the  Stoics  and  called  my  body — A  vile 
CARCASE,  my  spirit — A  DREAM,  A  SMOKE  ;  when  I  howled  at 
the  cities  of  the  earth — You  are  dust-heaps  !  and  to  the  Heavens, 
You  are  ether  !  I  never  meant  it.  No  one  ever  does  mean 
these  things.  The  pride  of  life  and  the  desire  of  the  eyes  is 
mighty  in  all  men,  and,  while  one  is  strong,  the  time  is  the  time 
of  love. 

"  My  room  is  not  gay.  Below,  there  is  a  lodger  who  sings. 
His  voice  grows  weaker  every  hour.  A  great  Countess  has 
promised  him  an  opportunity  to  amuse  her  guests — some  night — 
next  month  .   .  .  probably.     I  hope  he  may  live  till  then.     We 

*  With  the  help  of  the   gods,  even   a  man   who   was  no  man,  might 
prove  a  conqueror. — Sophocles,  Ajax,  767-8. 
t  It  was  purchased  recently  for  ;^I24. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  165 

have  discovered  that — before  chicken  and  turtle,  we  both  prefer 
water  biscuits  and  Marsala.  '  A  tenor,'  says  he,  '  should  have 
a  slim  waist.'  'An  author,' says  I,  '  should  not  clog  his  brain 
with  rich  food  ! ' 

"  I  met  Lord  Wight  lor  the  first  time  this  afternoon.  Imagine 
a  fat  man  with  an  externally  happy  profile  and  a  full  face — be- 
yond all  description,  sad.  He  told  me  that — if  I  would  not  urge 
him  to  give  up  eating  pastry  and  if  I  could  assist  him  with  his  new 
translation  (with  notes)  of  Solomon's  Song — we  should  agree. 
He  has  hired  a  house  near  the  Border,  for  he  connects  the  Love 
of  the  Canticum  Canticorum  with  Mary  Stuart.  ■  Was  she 
not,'  said  he,  '  as  fair  as  the  moon  and  as  terrible  as  an  army 
with  banners  ?  '  He  would  require  my  undivided  devotion  for 
three  full  hours  every  morning.  On  waking,  it  is  his  habit  to 
hear  six  Psalms  or  to  read  aloud  in  Hebrew.  After  that,  he 
'potters  among  his  books.'  I  have  accepted  his  terms  and  I 
feel,  on  the  whole,  fortunate.  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  was  present 
during  the  interview.  She  never  spoke,  but  she  looked  all  the 
Beatitudes — more  particularly  the  fifth — 

'  BLESSED  ARE  THE  MERCIFUL  :    FOR  THEY  SHALL  OBTAIN 

MERCY.' 

She  is  a  pretty  soul.  I  never  saw  longer  eyelashes  than  hers. 
When  she  looks  up,  they  fairly  sweep  the  skies.  When  she 
looks  down,  the  whole  world  lies  in  shadow — " 

Here,  the  letter  breaks  off.  It  was  never  finished,  and, 
as  we  have  already  seen,  it  was  never  despatched.  That 
it  contains  a  faithful  transcript  of  Robert's  mind  cannot 
be  doubted.  Although  he  had  resolved  to  enter  political 
life,  his  will  rather  than  his  heart  was  pledged  to  that  vo- 
cation. The  true  bent  and  the  real  struggle  are  shown  in 
that  solitary  pilgrimage  to  Mont  Serrat,  in  his  reflection 
on  the  monastic  life,  his  significant  attachment  to  the 
Horae — the  sale  of  which  might  have  saved  a  few  at  least 
of  his  other  books — and,  finally,  those  words — half-de- 
fiant and  half  a  confession — "  TJie  pride  of  life  and  the  de- 
sire of  the  eyes  are  mighty  in  all  men,  and,  while  one  is 
strong,  the  time  is  the  time  of  love."  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  utter  the  priestly  vows.     He  could  not  sacrifice 


i66  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

the  hope — thoug-h  pale  and  mute — of  marriage  and  honors, 
nor  could  he  renounce  the  vain  expectation  of  that  happi- 
ness, which  the  young,  and  ardent,  and  impassioned  do 
ever  think  to  be  the  sum  of  earthly  prizes.  It  is  true  that 
this  last  is  never  mentioned  either  in  Robert's  Journal  or 
in  his  correspondence.  But  we  may  be  sure  that  it  was 
there — and  with  it  a  pride  of  birth  almost  amounting  to 
arrogance.  His  father  came  of  the  best  blood  in  France. 
His  mother — of  a  haughty  and  rebellious  stock — had  been 
disowned  by  her  family.  Robert  felt  that  he  must  fight 
for  his  birthright.  His  place  was  among  the  noblemen 
of  any  realm.  A  man  should  strive  to  come  unto  his  own. 
Afterwards — he  might — of  his  free  will  live  as  he  pleased, 
and  become,  for  penance'  sake,  as  a  hired  servant.  But 
to  be  dispossessed,  by  force,  of  his  position  and  to  bear 
such  injustice  without  protest  was  neither  godly  nor 
manly.  It  is  not  within  the  power  of  any  family  to  dis- 
own one  of  its  members.  A  name  is  a  name  and  neither 
curses  nor  disgrace  can  make  the  blood  of  one  race  the 
blood  of  another.  Robert  was  born  of  the  House  of 
Hausde  and  the  House  of  Wharborough.  He  was  no  ad- 
venturer, no  upstart.  And  he  would  vindicate  his  mother's 
honor.     Such  was  his  argument. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  165 


CHAPTER   VII. 

The  days  were  the  days  of  the  Irish  Church  Bill.  Dis- 
raeli, as  Leader  of  the  Opposition,  had  indeed  delivered 
speeches  against  it,  but  they  were  given  without  unction. 
He  spoke  rather  of  manners  than  of  measures.  On  the 
Lords  sending  back  their  Amendments,  he  entreated  the 
Commons  to  remember  the  courtesy  due  to  the  Upper 
House  and  to  meet  their  Lordships  "in  a  spirit  of  concili- 
ation. "  When  he  defined  Propaganda  as  the  most  power- 
fully disciplined  Foreign  oflice  in  the  world — when  he 
called  the  Catholic  priesthood  a  perfect  organization  against 
which  the  Protestant  Church  in  Ireland  could  not  hope 
to  stand — when  he  described  the  Roman  See  as  possess- 
ing the  advantages  without  the  disadvantages  of  an  Estab- 
lishment, it  did  not  require  profound  intelligence  to  see, 
that,  wherever  his  allegiance  may  have  been,  his  admira- 
tion did  not  rush  forth  spontaneously  to  the  government 
of  the  Church  of  England.  He  bore  the  final  passing  of 
the  Bill  with  honeyed  resignation.  ''  Not  for  many  years," 
says  21ie  Times  of  that  date,  "  has  there  been  such  a  sweet 
interchange  of  good  feeling.  Tlie  House  of  Commons  yes- 
terday afternoon  might  have  been  the  Teynple  of  Harmony. 
The  conversation  somewhat  assumed  the  tone  of  the  supper- 
parties  of  our  youth,  or  the  later  hours  of  a  provincial  ban- 
quet when  every  one  feels  called  upon  to  propose  his  neigh- 
bor s  health,  or  to  testify  to  his  excellent  social  and  moral 
qualities. " 

Robert  had  avoided  Disraeli  and  the  political  Clubs  dur- 
ing those  memorable  debates  in  July,  1869.      Lord  Reck- 


i68  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

age,  however,  whose  interest  in  ecclesiastical  questions 
was  making  itself  more  manifest  each  day,  had  been  ad- 
dressing the  serious-minded  all  through  the  country.  He 
gathered  round  his  standard  a  small  but  dashing  band  of 
Graduates  and  young  clergy  who  clamored,  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Prize  Essays,  for  the  Reformation  principles  of 
Church  and  State.  "The  fear  of  God  made  England,"  was 
their  text,  "and  no  great  nation  was  ever  made  by  any 
other  fear."  The  Roman  Catholics  could  not  deny  this  : 
the  Nonconformists  found  the  doctrine  sound.  Reckage 
began  to  be  regarded,  in  a  certain  exclusive  circle,  as  the 
second  Wellington  of  a  new  Waterloo  fought  between  the 
powers  of  darkness  and  the  sons  of  light.  The  young  man 
was  in  earnest.  His  sympathies  were  frankly  Ritualistic 
when  Ritualism  was  by  no  means  popular.  To  be  irreligi- 
ous was,  in  his  opinion,  to  be  ungentlemanly.  To  deny 
God  and  blaspheme  was  the  cad's  part.  True  piety  will 
give  even  the  humblest  person  the  grace  of  self-possession 
and  dignity.  Reckage  knew  that.  How  much  more 
then,  he  argued,  did  it  illumine  those  who  had  rank  and 
talents  and  influence.''  "  It  is  so  vulgar,"  said  he,  "to 
doubt."  The  motive  of  belief  may  not  have  been  a 
high  one — but  it  touched  many  minds  not  readily  acces- 
sible to  more  exalted  arguments.  His  party  grew.  He 
saw  himself  regarded  as  a  man  of  some  consequence  and 
he  honestly  wished  to  give  God  the  glory.  No  deliber- 
ate hypocrite  has  ever  yet  succeeded  even  in  the  wayside 
booths  of  public  life.  There  must  be  a  spark  of  sincerity 
somewhere.  And  Reckage  had  more  than  a  spark  of  it. 
His  Villa  on  the  Thames  was  as  the  abode  of  a  Maecenas 
turned  theologian. 

On  the  last  day  of  July,  Orange  was  writing  to  Disraeli 
to  remind  him  of  his  promise  to  attend  a  service  of  that 
Archconfraternity  known  as  that  of  the  Bo7ia  Mors,  when 
Reckage  presented  himself  at  Vigo  Street.      His  lordship 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  169 

had  long  wanted  an  introduction  to  the  despised,  feared, 
yet  indispensable  genius  of  the  Conservative  party,  and 
it  had  struck  him,  that,  of  all  ways  of  meeting  so  mysteri- 
ous a  person,  this,  of  sitting  next  him  in  a  Church  of  the 
Jesuit  Fathers,  was  by  far  the  most  picturesque  and  ex- 
traordinary. 

"Besides,"  said  he  to  Orange,  as  they  walked  together 
tov/ard  Farm  Street,  "the  service  itself  is  no  doubt  inter- 
esting. Very  touching,  too,  I  daresay.  Who  can  deny 
that  Rome  understands  a  ceremony  better  than  we  do — 
at  present  ?  But  we  shall  have  all  these  things  in  time. 
A  great  many  people  have  already  given  in  about  the 
candles  !  And  that's  a  tremendous  concession.  The  dif- 
ference between  the  priest  and  the  parson  need  not  be  so 
great.  Tell  me  more  about  Dizzy's  manner.  He  bores 
Salisbury.     I  wish  he  didn't  bore  Salisbury." 

At  that  time,  the  West  End  of  London  and  the  Parks 
did  not  present,  on  Sunday  afternoons,  the  lively  appear- 
ance which  is  now  their  characteristic.  The  Zoological 
Gardens  were  then  the  favorite  promenade  of  such  mem- 
bers of  society  who  were  at  once  eminently  distin- 
guished for  decorum  yet  not  extravagantly  Puritanical  in 
the  matter  of  Sunday  recreations.  But  the  streets  were 
deserted.  The  houses  might  have  been  vast  silent  cata- 
combs. There  was  not  a  face  to  be  seen  at  any  window. 
Not  a  laugh  or  a  word  rose  from  any  area.  No  caller 
stood  before  any  one  of  the  many  hundred  doors.  The 
creaking  wheels  of  a  loitering  cab  or  the  heavier  roll  ot 
an  half-empty  public  conveyance  disturbed,  at  rare  inter- 
vals, the  strange  tranquillity  of  the  scene.  The  very  air 
seemed  to  have  paused  and  the  earth  stood  still. 

As  the  two  young  men  crossed  the  threshold  of  the 
Church,  the  sight  which  opened  before  them  was  like  a 
dream  imprisoned  in  a  rock.  The  dark  stone  cavernous 
building,  where  shadowy  forms  were  kneeling  in  prayer 


17©  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

and  praise,  seemed  a  hollow  not  made  with  hands,  and 
the  light  on  the  high  altar  shone  through  the  mist  of 
incense  as  something  wholly  supernatural  yet  living  and 
sacred.  It  seemed  to  breathe  and  vibrate,  and  was,  now 
a  still  blessing,  and,  now  a  note  of  music  too  delicate  to 
be  told  on  instruments  or  uttered  by  the  human  voice. 
It  fell  not  upon  the  senses  but  the  heart,  and  the  faint 
sound  that  reached  the  ear  was  no  more  than  the  infinite 
soft  murmur  of  many  small  candle  flames.  The  choir 
were  singing  the  last  strains  of  the  0  Salularis  : — 

Uni  t7'iiioqtie  Domiiio 
Sit  sempiter7ia  gloria 
Qui  vitavi  sine  terfnino 
N'obis  donet  i7i  patria. 

The  service  that  followed  was  a  devotion — the  great 
end  of  which  is  "to  honor  the  Passion  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  and  the  Dolors  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  trusting 
thereby  to  obtain  the  grace  of  a  happy  death."  It  begins 
with  an  appeal  for  mercy  from  the  Lord  Christ  and  then 
a  salutation  to  Holy  Mary,  the  angels,  archangels,  pa- 
triarchs, prophets,  apostles,  evangelists,  martyrs,  and  to  all 
the  holy  ones  and  Saints  of  God — to  which,  at  the  inton- 
ing of  each  name,  the  choir  cries  out,  "  Pray  for  us." 

Then  there  is  the  incomparable  prayer  and  adjura- 
tion : — 

From  Thine  anger 

From  a 71  evil  death 

From  the  pains  of  Hell 

From  all  evil 

From  the  power  of  the  devil 

By  Thy  Nativity 

By  Thy  Cross  a7id  Passion 

By  Thy  Death  a7id  Burial 

By  Thy  glorious  Resurrection 

By  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Ghost  the  Comforter 

In  the  Day  of  fudgment, 

O  Lord,  deliver  us. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  171 

Then,   after  some  shorter  prayers,  there  follows  that 
sublime  commemoration  of  the  Passion  : — 


O  Jesus,  Who,  during  Thy  prayer  to  the  Father  in  the 
garden  wast  so  filled  with  sorrow  and  anguish,  that  there 
came  forth  from  Thee  a  bloody  sweat — 

Have  mercy  o?i  us,  0  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who   wast  betrayed  by  the   kiss  of  a  traitor 
into  the  hands   of  the  wicked,  seized   and  bound  like  a 
thief,  and  forsaken  by  Thy  disciples — 

Have  mercy  on  us,  O  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who,  by  the  unjust  council  of  the  Jews,  wast 
sentenced  to  death,  led  like  a  malefactor  before  Pilate, 
scorned  and  derided  by  impious  Herod — 

Have  mercy  on  us,  O  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,   Who  wast  stripped    of    Thy   garments,   and 
most  cruelly  scourged  at  the  pillar — 

Have  mercy  on  us,  O  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who    wast    crowned  with    thorns,   buffeted, 
struck  with  a  reed,  blindfolded,  clothed  with  a  purple  gar- 
ment,   in   many   ways    derided,    and   overwhelmed   with 
reproaches — 

Have  mercy  on  us,  0  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who   wast   less  esteemed  than  the  murderer 
Barabbas,  rejected  by  the  Jews,  and  unjustly  condemned 
to  the  death  of  the  Cross — 

Have  mercy  on  us,  O  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who  wast  loaded  with  a  Cross,  and  led  to  the 
place  of  execution  as  a  lamb  to  the  slaughter — 
Have  mercy  07i  us,  0  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who  wast    numbered   among  thieves,    blas- 
phemed and  derided,  made  to  drink  of  gall  and  vinegar, 
and  crucified  in  dreadful  torment  from  the  sixth  to  the 
ninth  hour — 

Have  mercy  on  us,  0  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 


173  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

O   Jesus,    Who  didst  expire  on   the  Cross,  Who   wast 
pierced  with   a  lance   in  presence  of  Thy  holy  Mother, 
and  from  Whose  side  poured  forth  blood  and  water — 
Have  mercy  on  us,  0  Lord  :  have  mercy  o?i  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who  wast  taken   down   from  the  Cross,  and 
bathed  in  the  tears  of  Thy  most  sorrowing  Virgin  Mother — 
Have  mercy  on  us,  O  Lord  :  have  mercy  on  us. 
O  Jesus,  Who  wast  covered  with  bruises,  marked  with 
the  Five  Wounds,  embalmed  with  spices,  and  laid  in  the 
sepulchre — 

Have  mercy  on  us,  0  Lord :  have  mercy  on  us. 
For  He  hath  truly  borne  our  sorrows — 

A  nd  He  hath  carried  our  griefs. 

After  this  there  was  a  pause.  A  sacred  banner  was 
placed — as  a  veil — before  the  monstrance,  and  a  form  of 
address,  known  as  a  Meditation,  was  given  from  the  pul- 
pit by  one  of  the  Fathers.  He  had  chosen  for  his  sub- 
ject, on  this  occasion,  the  crowning  of  our  Lord  with 
Thorns.  It  was  not  a  sermon — but  an  appeal  to  the  im- 
agination of  his  listeners.  They  took  part  in  the  trial  be- 
fore Pilate,  they  heard  the  words  of  the  Accused  and  His 
accusers,  the  shouts  of  the  mob,  the  brutal  jests  of  the 
soldiery.  The  whole  tragedy  was  enacted  before  their 
eyes  :  many  wept  :  the  hardest  were  moved  by  the  re- 
cital of  woes  so  poignant  and  so  faithful  to  the  human 
heart.  The  rest  of  the  service,  as  its  commencement,  is 
similar  to  the  Litany,  which,  translated  and  adopted 
from  the  Roman  Breviary,  is  one  of  the  chief  beauties  in 
the  English  Book  of  Common  Prayer.  At  its  conclusion, 
the  priest,  mantled  with  the  veil,  makes  the  sign  of  the 
cross  with  the  monstrance  over  the  worshippers.  This 
Benediction  is  given  in  silence — to  show  that  it  is  not  the 
earthly  but  the  Eternal  Priest  Who,  in  the  rite,  blesses 
and  sanctifies  His  people. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  173 

One  by  one  the  lights  upon  the  Altar  were  extinguished 
and  the  Church  grew  so  dark  that  it  was  impossible  to 
discern  the  faces  of  the  congregation,  A  terrific  clap  of 
thunder  shook  the  whole  building.  It  was  followed  by 
another  and  yet  another.  Some  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren huddled  themselves,  like  frightened  sheep,  in  the 
side-chapels.  The  men  looked  out  only  to  find  the 
streets  deluged  with  rain  and  the  skies  frightful  with 
lightning.  Such  a  storm  had  not  been  seen  in  London 
for  years.  It  broke  with  disastrous  violence  all  over  the 
City.  The  peaceful  Sunday  had  become  a  Witch's  Sab- 
bath. The  violent  gusts  of  wind  and  the  drenching 
shower  made  the  thoroughfares  impassable.  Yet,  as  sud- 
denly as  the  storm  had  broken,  it  ceased.  In  less  than 
an  hour  the  Church  was  deserted — save  for  three.  Orange 
and  Lord  Reckage  were  watching  for  Disraeli.  He  had 
been  sitting,  unknown  and  unperceived,  apparently  lost 
in  thought,  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  side-aisle.  He 
came  forward  at  last,  but  he  hastened  by  the  two  young 
men  without  a  word. 

"  He  could  not  have  seen  me  !  "  exclaimed  Reckage, 
a  little  hurt. 


174  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

The  nomination  of  the  candidates  for  the  Norbet  Royal 
election  took  place  eleven  days  later  when  Parliament 
was  prorogued  and  the  Session  of  1869  came  to  a  close. 
Robert  had  no  hope  of  winning  the  contest.  He  was 
told  to  make  for  a  decent  show  at  the  third  place.  The 
mission  was  not  glorious  and  scarcely  inspiring.  Dis- 
raeli gave  him  but  few  instructions.  He  had  not  even 
suggested  a  heading  or  two  for  his  first  speech.  Robert 
had  chosen  to  be  a  free  agent,  and,  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
he  found  himself  alone.  The  diplomatist  evidently 
wished  to  try  the  mettle  of  his  man  by  the  most  severe 
tests  possible.  The  fact  that  Orange  had  been  brought 
forward  by  the  leaders  of  the  Opposition  without  consul- 
tation with  the  general  body,  coupled  with  the  reappear- 
ance of  Mr.  Vandeleur  as  a  candidate,  also  in  the  Tory 
interest,  aroused  great  excitement  and  dissension.  Van- 
deleur had  strong  connections  in  the  County.  These 
connections  detested  him,  yet,  they  all  wished,  for  the 
family's  sake,  to  see  him  once  more  in  Parliament.  He 
was  a  plump  sort  of  scoundrel  with  a  certain  gift  for  writ- 
ing political  pamphlets  in  agreeable  English.  To  the 
obscure  learned,  who  worked  for  their  living,  he  was 
known  as  a  "brain-picker."  Sir  Charles  Bellingham,  the 
Gladstonian,  had,  for  his  chief's  sake,  the  support  of  the 
district.  He  was  an  excellent  man  but  perhaps  a  shade 
over-confident.  The  seat  was  a  Liberal  stronghold.  He 
felt  like  a  king  coming  unto  his  own  and  he  bore  the  hon- 
ors of  victory  in  advance. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  175 

Ten  thousand  persons  assembled  in  the  Market-place, 
and,  amidst  groans,  cheers,  yells,  cat-calls,  and  the 
pitching  of  carrots  and  stale  eggs,  the  three  candidates 
were  conveyed  to  the  hustings.  The  High  Sheriff  ar- 
rived at  least  half  an  hour  after  time,  but  the  interval  of 
suspense  was  relieved  from  monotony  by  the  oaths  of  the 
wounded  and  the  jests  of  the  brave.  "Blue  doves  "  and 
"yellow  doves"  pelted  each  other  with  mud  and  gar- 
bage. Mr.  Vandeleur  had  hired  four  hundred  and  seventy 
"doves"  to  protect  his  possible  voters.  It  afterwards 
transpired  that  they  received  ^^192  for  their  refreshments 
and  loyalty.  Another  body  of  one  hundred  and  four 
"respectable  "  men,  under  the  police,  were  endeavoring 
to  preserve — without  favor — order  and  peace.  Songs — 
not  too  decent— were  sung:  pleasantries — of  no  milky 
flavor — were  freely  exchanged.  Sir  Charles  Bellingham's 
Wellington  nose  received  more  than  its  full  measure  of 
attention.  Mr.  Vandeleur's  head  was  denounced  as 
"fat."  A  young  factory  girl  threw  her  bow  of  long  rib- 
bons, known  as  "  Follow-me-lads,"  at  Orange's  feet.  He 
saluted  her  and  tied  the  favor  on  his  arm. 

The  writ  having  been  read  and  the  usual  formalities 
disposed  of,  Lord  Ravensworth  proposed  Sir  Charles 
Bellingham  as  a  person  of  distinction,  virtue,  and 
property. 

A  gentleman  in  the  crowd  then  saluted  him,  in  kind 
terms,  as  "Pretty  Poll!"  When  Major  Egerton  Dane 
rose  to  second  the  nomination,  he  was  not  heard. 

Mr.  De  Havers  then  proposed  Mr.  Vandeleur,  whose 
name  was  received  with  hoots. 

The  Hon.  Gerald  Galloway  seconded  the  motion. 

Orange  was  then  proposed  by  a  friend  of  Lord  Derby. 

One  of  Disraeli's  friends  seconded  the  nomination. 
Their  speeches  were  short  and  were  little  more  than  a 
mere  introduction.     Wisely,   no  reference  was  made  to 


176  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

the  candidate's  literary  career.  Authors  are  not  con- 
sidered practical  in  worldly  affairs.  Robert  had  three 
points  in  his  favor.  He  had  a  fine  presence  :  he  was  a 
bachelor  :  he  was  unknown  in  the  constituency,  and,  if 
he  had  no  friends,  he  had  no  enemies  in  the  crowd. 
When  it  came  to  his  turn  to  speak,  the  calm  of  curiosity 
settled  upon  the  hearers.  What  would  he  say  ?  How- 
would  he  say  it  .''  He  had  been  described  in  the  local 
prints  of  his  opponents  as  a  foreigner.  But  he  had 
been  born  in  England  and  he  had  inherited  his 
mother's  English  features.  His  fine  athletic  figure, 
his  plain  dress,  his  whole  appearance  was  that  of  an 
English  gentleman  of  the  true  school.  They  waited 
anxiously  for  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Vegetables  and 
eggs  were  held  in  readiness  for  the  first  imperfection 
in  accent.  He  came  forward.  His  countenance  was 
eminently  pleasing  and  his  manner  unaffected.  He 
spoke  with  some  nervousness,  but  in  language  as  clear 
and  simple  as  though,  to  quote  a  contemporary,  he  had 
been  addressing  the  very  flower  of  Europe,  or  a  Vatican 
Council  !  He  was  allowed  to  continue  for  some  minutes 
without  interruption,  till  one  of  the  "  yellow  doves,"  at  a 
glance  from  Mr.  Vandeleur,  raised  the  cry  of  "  Jesuit  !  " 
This  was  enough.  The  groans,  hisses  and  hoots — for  the 
temporary  lull — recommenced  with  double  vigor.  Heads 
were  smashed.  Robert  himself  was  pelted  with  garbage. 
Gross  things  M^ere  said  of  the  Papacy  and  the  priesthood. 
The  note  of  blasphemy  was  not  wanting.  That  fatal  cry 
of  "  Jesuit  I  "  had  worked,  so  it  seemed,  irretrievable 
harm.  "  Blue"  attacked  "blue"  and  "  yellow  "  turned 
against  "  yellow."  Bruised  ears,  battered  noses  and 
blackened  eyes,  swollen  cheeks  and  cracked  teeth  were 
perhaps  the  worst  outward  signs  of  the  struggle.  A  con- 
stable had  his  arm  broken,  and  a  priest — who  had  rashly 
ventured  into  the  crowd — suffered  afterwards  from  a  dis- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  177 

located  shoulder.  A  child  was  killed,  a  woman  carr)^ing 
an  infant  was  knocked  down,  but  the  rest  escaped  lightly. 
The  scene,  however,  became  so  wild  that  the  Riot  Act 
was  read,  and  the  mounted  police  were  permitted  some 
rough  riding.  The  poll  was  eventually  fixed  for  the 
Saturday.  The  intervening  days  were  for  speeches  and 
demonstrations. 

Early  the  next  morning,  Robert  strolled  into  the  Market- 
place, and  there  he  met  a  whole  company  of  carters — in 
their  picturesque  dress  of  smocks  and  shorts — who  were 
exhibiting  feats  of  skill  with  the  whip.  He  had  often  seen, 
as  a  lad,  performances  of  the  kind  in  Brittany.  One  es- 
pecially difficult  game  is  to  pursue  a  running  man  and 
catch  him  by  casting  the  whip  in  such  a  way  that  it  curls 
about  his  legs  and  trips  him  up — but  without  stinging. 
If  the  whip  stings — it  is  badly  thrown.  The  prowess  is 
shown  by  the  lightness  of  touch.  Now  it  will  be  seen  at 
once  that  much  depends  on  the  honor  of  the  adversary. 
Should  he  swear  that  the  whip  came  too  hard — no  umpire 
could  decide  to  the  contrary.  In  Brittany,  however,  the 
strictest  integrity  seemed  to  prevail  in  the  matter.  Robert 
found  a  spirit  no  less  chivalrous  among  the  Norbet  Royal 
carters.  They  were  extremely  rough,  and  they  were  not 
of  the  kind  that  smarted  easily.  When  one  was  stung — 
he  rounded  on  the  pursuer  and  punched  his  head.  This 
was  considered  a  just  return.  On  the  other  hand,  when 
one  was  fairly  caught — he  would  pick  himself  up  with 
meekness  and  chuck  his  halfpenny  into  the  "  pool." 
As  Robert  stood  watching — one  of  the  fellows,  who 
seemed  the  bully  of  the  party,  dared  him  to  take 
his  chance.  The  suggestion  was  received  with  roars  of 
laughter. 

"  Two  to  one  on  Bobby  Lemon  !  "  said  the  chief  wit. 
"  Rum-and-Bobby-Lemon  !     Hell  have  his  fine  shanks 
like  a  zebra  at  the  circus  ! 
U 


178  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

But  they  had  not  been  drinking,  and  they  were  disposed 
to  show  good-nature. 

"  What  will  thee  put  in  the  pool,  Holy  Peter,  my  lad.^* '' 

"  I'll  put  in  when  I'm  caught,"  said  Robert,  "  but  not 
a  minute  before." 

"That's  fair,"  said  the  keeper  of  the  stakes,  and  he 
winked  at  their  champion  whipster  ;  "  that's  the  rule 
true  enough.  B^ut  hast  thee  got  twenty  shillun'  ?  "  It 
will  cost  thee  every  penny  o'  that,  lad,  and  more  too  I  " 

This  sally  was  received  with  cheers. 

"  Wold  Jacob's  got  his  answer  for  the  best  of 'em,  "'  ob- 
served the  first  speaker. 

"  I  can  pay  for  all  my  cuts,"  said  Robert,  "  but  I  will 
not  run  till  I  myself  cut  a  man." 

"Canst  thee  throw  a  whip  ?"  said  the  champion — a 
big  lout  with  the  lightest  wrist  in  the  county. 

"  Once  I  could,  "  said  Robert,  "  and  there's  no  harm 
in  trying  again  !  " 

He  was  offered  a  choice  of  whips. 

"  Thee'st  taken  a  ugly  customer,  "  growled  the  cham- 
pion :    "  and  thee  won't  catch  no  me  wi'  him." 

The  Market-place  was  a  large  square.  The  traditional 
"  start  "  was  three  lengths  of  the  whip.  It  often  hap- 
pened that  the  carters — who  were  rather  clumsy  at  run- 
ning— went  at  least  six  times  round  the  course  before  they 
tripped  their  prey. 

The  places  were  taken,  the  ground  was  cleared,  the  dis- 
tance was  carefully  marked  off. 

"  Now  then — when  I  says  voiir.  Are  ye  ready  ?  One 
— two — three — voiir  ! 

The  chase  began.  The  champion — Sam  Pratt — had  ac- 
quired the  trick  of  so  running  that,  while  he  was  not 
swift,  he  threw  up  his  heels  in  a  way  which  made  lassoing 
extremely  difficult.     Thrice  they  went  round  the  course — 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  179 

Robert  contenting  himself  by  cracking  the  whip — which 
was  also  a  feature  of  the  game. 

"  He  can  crack  as  foiue  as  I  ever  heerd  !  "said  the  pool- 
keeper.      "  But  what's  cracking  ?  " 

The  fourth  lap  was  made.  At  the  fifth,  Orange  decided 
to  cast.  He  aimed.  A  shout  went  up.  Sammie  fell 
down. 

"  Hast  thee  been  stung,  Sammie.?  " 

Sammie  got  up,  scratched  his  head,  and,  starting  over 
to  the  pool,  paid  in — without  a  word — his  halfpenny. 
But  when  the  applause  was  ended,  they  missed  him. 

"  He's  taken  it  to  heart,"  said  Jacob.  "  He've  got  the 
tenderest  skin  of  the  lot.  He've  punched  viva  heads  this 
morning.     And  who  will  go  next  ?  " 

They  had,  however,  seen  enough  of  Robert's  skill,  and, 
after  shaking  hands  with  him,  they  departed  each  to  his 
cart.  But  they  watched  old  Jacob  who  still  held  the 
pool  in  his  cap.      It  amounted  to  fourpence  halfpenny. 

"  How  many  men  are  there  ?  "  asked  Robert. 

"There  be  ten  men,  two  lads,  and  a  galoot,  and  the 
galoot  is  my  own  flesh-and-blood.  I  can't  think  who  he 
takes  after." 

"And  which  was  he  ?  " 

"Sammie." 

"The  champion  ?" 

"  He  was  the  champion.  But  I  believe  he's  gone  off 
now  and  hanged  himself" 

"Shall  I  go  after  him  ?  "  said  Robert. 

"Thee'st  best  leave  a  sick  cat  he,"  answered  Jacob, 
counting  out  the  nine  half-pence  upon  the  stone  step 
beside  him. 

Orange  added  three  gold  pieces  to  the  little  sum,  at 
which  the  eyes  of  the  old  man  grew  hard  and  thoughtful. 

"  Sammies  made  more  by  being  beat,"  said  he,  "  than 
he's   ever  done  by   winning  !      And  I  say — send  more 


i8o  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

beaters — please  God — pride  or  no  pride.  Let  him  put's 
pride  in's  pocket !  " 

Robert  wished  him  good-day  and  left  the  Market-place 
where  the  carters — with  Sammy  among  them — were  soon 
quarrelling  over  the  pool. 

It  was  now  about  half-past  six.  The  shops  in  the  High 
Street  were  not  yet  open,  but  every  window,  door,  wall 
and  available  space  bore  the  name  either  of  Bellingham, 
Vandeleur,  or  Orange. 

"Vote  for  Bellingham,  the  people's  friend.  Vote 
FOR  Bellingham,  liberty,  and  probity.  Vo/e  for  con- 
science, St.  George,  and  the  British  Lion. " 

"Vote  for  VANDELEUR  and  the  United  Kingdom. 
Property  for  all  and  the  rights  of  property.  Vandeleur  a?id 
the  realm.  Vandeleur  and  England's  greatness.  Vande- 
leur and  the  gentlemen  of  Great  Britain. " 

"  Vote  for  Orange,  the  protection  of  the  poor,  and  the 
faith  of  our  fathers.  Vote  for  Orange,  a7id  Merrie  England 
will  be  herself  once  more.  Vote  for  Orange,  peace  and 
plenty. " 

These  bills,  composed  by  the  respective  agent  of  each 
candidate,  had  been  written  "to  meet  the  local  wants." 
Mr.  Vandeleur  had  suggested  a  point  or  two  on  his  own 
account,  but  Robert  had  trusted  wholly  in  the  discretion 
of  the  great  Mr.  Mawrenny,  and  Sir  Charles  had  placed 
no  less  reliance  in  his  "valued  friend,"  Mr.  Paradil. 

When  Orange  reached  his  quarters — the  White  Hart 
Hotel — Sir  Charles  Bellingham  was  in  the  hall.  The  rival 
candidates  saluted  each  other  pleasantly.  One,  with  an 
historic  majority  at  his  back,  could  well  afford  to  be 
magnanimous ;  the  other,  perhaps,  found  it  impossible 
to  do  anything  else  but  smile.     Conscience,   St.   George 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  i8i 

and  the  iBritish  Lion  in  one  person  were  to  be  encountered 
only,  one  might  think,  in  the  week  of  three  Saturdays. 

The  day's  fight  began  about  ten  o'clock.  Bellingham 
and  Orange  both  attempted  to  address  their  supporters 
from  the  hotel,  but  the  noise  and  uproar  was  so  great 
that  the)''  could  not,  and  several  fights  ensued. 

Mr.  Vandeleur,  who,  as  his  agent  declared,  was  nearly 
enough  related  to  the  Redford  family  to  go  into  mourn- 
ing on  the  death  of  the  Duke,  had  taken  up  his  quarters 
with  Lord  Ravensworth.  There  he  talked  of  greatness 
in  all  the  pleasure  and  safety  of  family  life.  Possibly  out 
of  respect  to  his  deceased  and  noble  relative,  he  refrained 
from  addressing  the  mob  from  a  commoner  platform  than 
the  Town  Hall.  Once  and  but  once  he  ventured  into  the 
street  where  he  heard  so  many  coarse  remarks  and  rubbed 
shoulders  with  so  many  vulgar  people  that  he  could  only 
rid  himself  of  these  disagreeable  associations  by  entering 
the  post  office  and  despatching  confidential  telegrams  to 
half  the  peerage.  In  fact,  so  much  time  passed  in  this 
dignified  and  soothing  occupation  that  he  forgot  many 
ot  his  public  engagements,  and,  it  may  even  be  assumed, 
that  the  public  in  turn  forgot  him. 

Orange,  however,  succeeded  in  pleasing  the  Mayor — a 
man  of  few  prejudices  and  a  large  family  of  unmarried 
daughters.  He  lent  the  bachelor  candidate  a  fine  blood 
mare,  as  bright  as  a  star,  and  riding  through  the  town  on 
this  beautiful  animal,  Robert  made  several  speeches  in 
the  teeth  of  the  rioters.  He  spoke  at  the  Corn  Exchange, 
in  the  market,  in  the  band  stand  of  the  public  Park,  at  the 
Town  Hall,  at  the  Freemasons'  Tavern,  at  the  Travellers' 
Inn,  and,  indeed,  wherever  he  could  find  even  two 
hearers. 

"  N'lma  can  no  longer  consult  his  Egeria  in  secret  caves," 
wrote  an  enthusiastic  Tory  editor  in  the  local  Organ.  "  He 
has  to  go  into  the  crowd  to  hear  what  people  say  of  men  and 


1 82  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

what  will  satisfy  the  greatest  number.  Mr.  Orange  has  shown 
himself  a  man  of  open  mind  who  is  ready  not  only  to  answer 
questions  but  to  ask  them." 

On  the  other  hand,  we  find  in  the  Liberal  Journal  this 
solemn  warning  : — 

••  Let  us  be  on  our  guard  against  the  well-known  oiliness  of 
Jesuitical  casuistry,  and  let  us  thoroughly  realize,  that,  when 
the  Tory  shows  himself  sympathetic,  or  concerned  in  the  wrongs 
and  rights  of  the  people,  it  is  because  he  will  soon  make  the 
rights  penalties,  and  the  wrongs  but  fruitless  party  cries — a  case 
of  '  Cherry  Ripe  '  and  empty  baskets." 

There  is  no  reason  to  think  that  Robert's  many  ad- 
dresses were  either  brilliant  or  original.  It  was  said  by- 
Mr.  Vandeleur  in  a  letter  to  his  cherished  friend  the  Earl 
of  Wencombe  that  "the  person  named  after  some  vegetable 
has  no  idea  of  rhetoric.  He  has  a  certain  persuasiveness 
due,  no  doubt,  to  his  Roman  Catholic  training,  and  his 
voice  is  good,  but,  if  A'D^o?,  oratory,  distinction,  and  that 
reserve  inseparable  from  high  breeding  are  still  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  Tory  gentleman,  the  aforesaid  vegetable 
or  fruit  has  no  claim  to  the  title." 

The  scene  on  the  polling  day  was  but  a  repetition  of 
the  skirmish  at  the  time  of  the  nomination.  There  was 
much  that  Mr.  Vandeleur  would  have  described  as  "low." 
The  assistance  of  the  military  was  applied  for.  Early  in 
the  day  the  Liberals  made  a  great  display  of  strength. 
Sir  Charles  Bellingham  had  his  telegrams  half  written  out, 
quite  ready  for  the  congratulations  which  would  inevi- 
tably arrive  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  But,  as  the 
hours  wore  on,  that  superb  majority  rapidly  declined. 
It  was  considered  wiser  at  the  three  Committee  Rooms  to 
refrain  from  posting  up  the  returns.  At  nightfall  there 
was  much  horse-play,  many  smashed  heads,  and  several 
broken  limbs.     More  violent  recriminations  were  reserved 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  183 

for  the  morrow,  a  Sunday,  when  men,  under  the  influence 
of  drink  and  leisure,  confessed,  or  pretended  to  confess, 
changes  of  opinion,  and  qualms  of  conscience. 

On  Monday,  in  a  drizzling  rain,  a  jaded  crowd  as- 
sembled at  the  hustings,  where  the  Mayor,  as  returning 
officer,  announced  the  numbers  to  be  as  follows  : — 

Orange,  3,602  ; 
Bellingham,  3,207; 
Vandeleur,  93  ; 

and  further  declared  Mr.  Robert  Orange  to  be  duly  elected 
to  represent  the  city  in  Parliament. 

As  we  have  said,  the  Session  had  been  brought  to  a 
close  on  the  preceding  Wednesday.  Robert  could  not 
take  his  seat  that  year.  He  had  arranged  to  spend  the 
summer  with  Lord  Wight  in  Scotland.  His  lordship  had 
spoken  largely  of  Hebrew  and  house-parties.  Lady  Fitz 
Rewes  and  her  delightful  children  had  been  ordered 
Northern  air.  She  had  agreed  to  accept  her  uncle's  hos- 
pitality for  "some  weeks."  Robert  was  just  beginning 
to  wonder  whether  his  prejudice  against  blonde  ringlets 
was  not  a  little  unjust  when  all  his  plans  received  a 
sudden  check. 


i84  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

About  this  time,  young  Legitimists  in  France  and  dash- 
ing souls  in  England  were  roused  to  an  interest  in  the 
claim  of  Don  Carlos — "Charles  VII.,  Duke  of  Madrid" — 
to  the  throne  of  Spain.  But  a  year  before,  the  Carlist 
cause  had  been  pronounced  by  those  in  power — "as  for- 
lorn as  a  cow  made  into  shoe-leather."  Nevertheless,  it 
suddenly  revived.  "Carlo  Quinto, "  worn  out  by  war, 
embittered  by  treacheries  and  disappointments,  had  died 
in  1855.  Dead,  too,  was  his  son,  Montemolin.  His 
second  heir,  Don  Juan  of  Bourbon,  had  signed  away  his 
birthright.  The  new  Don  Carlos  was  the  son  of  this  last 
by  the  Austrian,  Maria-Beatrice,  Archduchess  of  Este. 
He  had  been  born  in  exile  at  Leybach  in  Illyria  (now 
Carmiola).  He  was,  in  1869,  a  prince  of  one-and-twenty, 
a  bridegroom — described  by  his  devoted  partisans  as 
tall,  slight,  and  eminently  distinguished  in  bearing.  His 
large  black  eyes  had  the  fire  that  kindles  love  and  the 
firmness  that  breeds  fear.  Ardent,  courageous,  impulsive 
to  a  fault,  headstrong  and  inexhaustible — he  seemed  the 
very  figure  to  disturb  the  monotony  of  civic  prudence 
and  to  inspire  the  hearts  of  a  passionate  people.  His 
marriage  with  the  young  Princess  Margaret  of  Parma, 
the  daughter  of  a  murdered  king,  added  yet  another  touch 
of  pathos  to  a  life  already  wrapped  in  romance  and  linked 
with  all  the  tragedy,  the  fortunes,  gifts,  reverses  and 
follies  of  the  House  of  Bourbon.  This  same  bride — Dona 
Margarita — who  was  called  Queen  "par  la  naissance  et 
par  le  cceur" — had  a  fair  countenance  which  soft  blue 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  185 

eyes,  a  charming  smile  and  perfect  manners  made  trebly 
lovable.  One  hears  of  her — dressed  all  in  black — going 
from  bed  to  bed  among  the  wounded  in  the  Hospital — 
saying,  "They  are  all  mine — for  they  are  Spaniards — 
whether  for  us  or  against  us  !  " 

Spain  itself  was  divided  between  two  great  forces — the 
army  and  the  people.  Its  fortunes  were  in  the  grasp  of 
the  army  and  the  army  was  under  the  guidance  of  one 
mind — that  of  General  Prim.  The  people,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  as  many  heads  as  it  had  combatants.  Each 
enthusiast  went  to  destruction  in  his  own  way.  It  was 
a  case  of  "Vae  Soli!"  The  Carlisls  have  a  King:  the 
Isabellinos  a  Queen  :  the  Alfonsisis  a  Prince  :  the  U)nonists 
a  Duke  {JSIonpensier),  hut  the  Progressionists  have  neither 
Dtike,  Prince,  Queeii  nor  King — so  runs  a  contemporary 
despatch.  The  Bourbons  had  been  tried,  it  may  be,  too 
long,  and  to  the  Republicans  no  man  in  his  senses  would 
give  even  the  chance  of  a  trial.  The  Carlists,  however, 
stood  for  the  traditions  of  chivalry,  for  the  Rolands  and 
Olivers  of  the  heroic  age.  Prim's  harshness  was  found, 
even  by  his  supporters,  both  ill-advised  and  barbarous. 
Don  Carlos — in  contrast  to  this — had  issued  orders  that 
the  men  who  followed  his  standard  were  to  be  as  dis- 
tinguished for  humanity  as  valor. 

"Choose,"  said  he,  "such  a  twenty  thousand  that 
there  will  not  be  found  one  coward  among  them  all.  But 
in  battle  strike  great  blows,  and  let  there  be  none  to  sing 
ill-songs  about  us.  For  the  King's  right,  one  should 
suffer  all  things,  endure  consuming  heat  and  unkind  cold, 
lose  life  and  limb.  Let  there  be  woe  in  the  heart  of  that 
man  who  is  a  coward  in  his  stomach." 

He  echoed  the  war-epic  of  France.  It  was  the  cause 
of  blood  and  romance  against  the  encroachments  of 
flesh  and  reason.  He  was — when  the  worst  was  said 
— the  true  heir.     His  wrongs  appealed  to  the  old,  dying 


t86  the  school  FOR  SAINTS. 

and  neglected  nobility  all  over  Europe.  They  went  to 
the  soul  of  every  man — whether  peasant  or  aristocrat — 
who  preferred  tradition  to  policy,  courage  to  comfort, 
and  the  magnificent  thought  of  the  Lord's  Anointed 
before  the  tangible  if  treacherous  advantages  of  demo- 
cratic government.  Robert's  new  ally — Lord  Wight, 
resolved,  in  common  with  several  other  English  gentle- 
men, to  go  to  Madrid.  He  seemed  to  be  fighting  the 
fights,  and  thinking  the  thoughts  of  the  fifteenth  and  six- 
teenth centuries.  He  carried  the  miniature  of  Mary 
Stuart  on  his  breast  and  an  unfinished  essay  on  the 
iniquities  of  Elizabeth,  in  his  portmanteau.  He  spoke 
warmly  of  the  gallant  Don  John  of  Austria  and  of  the 
brilliant,  reckless  Egmont  till  one  would  have  supposed 
that  these  heroes  had  been  the  playmates  of  his  youth. 
He  was  suffering  from  the  dropsy,  and  every  step  was 
torture.  Seasickness  and  the  August  sun,  the  hardships 
of  travel  and  an  insatiable  greed  of  English  cooking  could 
not  diminish  his  determination  to  be  of  service. 

"  By  God,  Orange,"  said  he,  when  the  two  left  Eng- 
land together,  "  after  this,  your  spoonies  at  the  House  of 
Commons  will  souiid  like  old  maids  at  a  kettle-drum.  All 
this  commerce  will  be  the  death  of  Great  Britain.  Com- 
merce— is  the  mother  of  liberty  and  eventually  its  de- 
stroyer. God  Almighty  !  If  I  were  but  twenty  years 
younger  !  "  On  that  point  he  refused  to  be  comforted  till 
his  man  reminded  him  that  he  was  a  good  shot. 

The  night  of  their  arrival  in  Madrid  was  marked  by  a 
tragic  adventure.  A  patrol  of  volunteers  in  the  service  of 
the  Government  had  their  suspicions  aroused  by  two  men, 
who,  muffled  in  cloaks  and  carrying  muskets,  were  lurk- 
ing in  the  neighborhood  of  a  fort  near  Loadilla.  On 
being  challenged  they  ran  oft  and  were  eventually  traced 
to  a  house  in  a  low  quarter  of  Madrid.  The  pursuers 
dared    not    enter  it.      But,    concealing   themselves,    they 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  187 

watched  for  the  morning.  At  daybreak,  the  supposed 
conspirators  ventured  out.  The  patrol  fired.  One  of  the 
men  fell  dead :  the  other  was  dangerously  wounded. 
The  wounded  man  was  the  Marquis  of  Pezos  :  the  young 
fellow  lying  dead  was  his  servant.  Despatches  were 
found  upon  both.  There  was  a  Carlist  plot  in  Madrid. 
Don  Carlos  himself  was  supposed  to  be  in  hiding  there. 
Vainly,  the  French  Minister  protested  that  the  "Duke" 
was  at  Fontainebleau.  He  was  with  General  Elio  in 
Navarre.  He  was  on  the  frontier.  He  was  at  La  Man- 
cha.  He  was  at  a  port  of  Guipuzcoa.  He  was  in 
Austria.  There  was  a  fluttering  at  every  Legation. 
Party  animosity  corrupted  all  information  at  its  very 
source.  The  Government  represented  the  matter  as 
slight,  but  the  air  was  sharp  with  rumors.  Nothing  could 
be  known  for  certain  :  anything  might  be  guessed,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  the  actual  truth.  But  arrests,  it  was  said, 
were  to  be  made,  and  this  time  they  would  mean  more 
than  banishment  to  the  Canary  Isles  !  Among  the  names 
of  those  involved  was  that  of  Brigit's  friend  Marie-Joseph- 
Joanna,  the  Countess  Des  Escas. 

The  Countess  had  two  residences — a  house  in  Madrid 
and  a  villa  at  Loadilla — about  fourteen  miles  from  the 
capital.  Her  town  house  formed  part  of  a  large  Convent 
and  Hospital — both  of  which  were  wholly  under  her  own 
control.  From  her  bedroom  she  could  step  into  a  tribune 
which  overlooked  the  Chapel.  A  balcony  ran  the  entire 
length  of  the  building — from  her  state  saloon  to  the  first- 
floor  ward  of  the  Hospital.  She  had  the  right  to  appoint 
her  own  priests,  confessors  and  doctors.  There  were 
twenty-seven  choir  nuns  and  twenty-five  lay  sisters.  At 
Loadilla — she  had  feudal  power  over  all  the  adjacent 
lands  and  villages.  Her  privileges  were  extraordinary 
and  her  influence  among  the  working  classes  was  too 
great  and  incalculable — too  deeply  involved  in  popular 


i88  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

sentiment  and  superstition  to  be  lightly  tampered  with. 
Her  husband  had  fallen  in  the  cause  of  Don  Carlos  the 
Fifth,  but,  after  his  death,  she  had  devoted  her  interests 
exclusively — so  far  as  one  could  judge  from  appearances 
— to  the  care  of  the  sick,  poor  and  aged.  General  Prim 
Vi^as  not  the  man  to  hesitate  over  any  measure,  but  in  the 
question  of  arresting  the  Countess  Des  Escas  he  realized 
that  violent  or  even  sudden  methods  would  excite  a 
dangerous  sympathy.  She  was  not  a  poor  woman — 
although  her  numerous  charities  kept  her  purse  slender. 
But,  faring  abstemiously  and  dressing  plainly — she  main- 
tained the  dignity  of  her  rank  by  keeping  a  large  retinue 
of  men-servants.  Her  house  had  the  atmosphere  of  an 
official  residence  and  the  massive  oak  doors — heavily 
carved  and  studded  with  iron — were  guarded  by  a  sentry 
wearing  the  once  famous  uniform  of  the  Des  Escas 
guards.  The  marble  hall  within  was  hung  with  old 
armor  and  trophies  of  war,  torn  flags  and  battered 
shields.  The  empty  knights  in  mail  formed  a  mournful 
contrast  to  the  powdered  lacqueys  with  their  plush  and 
cordings.  Every  afternoon  the  Countess  drove  on  the 
Prado  in  a  carriage  drawn  by  four  mules.  Gentlemen 
and  officers  of  her  acquaintance  would  often  ride  by  her 
side,  making  an  informal  but  impressive  escort. 

On  the  day  after  the  arrest  of  the  Marquis  of  Pezos,  the 
Countess  drove  out  as  usual  accompanied  by  Brigit.  The 
two  women  presented  a  striking  picture.  The  elder  had 
the  ivory  complexion  of  her  race — with  full  black  eyes 
and  a  mass  of  snow-white  hair  dressed  high  above  her 
forehead.  Other  Spanish  ladies  of  her  degree  followed 
the  fashion  of  the  Imperial  Court  at  Paris,  which,  at  that 
date,  dictated  chignons  and  ringlets,  gaudy  bonnets  and 
large  crinolines.  Marie-Joseph  Des  Escas,  however,  kept 
faithfully  to  the  old  style,  and  many  said  that  she  was 
clothed  in  heirlooms,  dating  mostly  from  the  sixteenth 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  189 

century.  Brigit  belonged  to  a  more  frivolous  generation 
and  had  inherited  a  livelier  taste.  Lilac  was  then  con- 
sidered the  most  elegant  and  distinguished  of  all  colors. 
She  wore  therefore  a  lilac  silk,  a  black  lace  mantilla  over 
her  shoulders,  and  a  lilac  plumed  hat.  She  had  a  crino- 
line also,  but  from  the  sketch  of  her  by  Millais  (some  of 
us  may  have  seen  it),  no  one  would  be  disposed  to  doubt 
that  even  a  crinoline  can  be  worn  with  grace.  Her  ex- 
pression was  of  that  brilliant,  elusive  kind  which  is  the 
distinctive  quality  of  Frenchwomen.  She  had  also  the 
Austrian  fairness  of  skin  and  clearness  of  feature.  Though 
little  known  outside  the  Des  Escas  circle  she  was,  beyond 
question,  among  the  few  extraordinarily  beautiful  creat- 
ures in  European  society  of  that  day. 

The  Countess,    on  this  particular  occasion,  bowed  as 
usual  to  her  acquaintances  and  exchanged  commonplace 
civilities  with  the  various  officers,  who,  from  time  to  time, 
rode  up  to  her  carriage,  saluted  her  and  looked  long  looks 
at  her  young  companion.      It  was  not  her  custom  to  talk 
to  Brigit  whilst  driving  and  they  both  sat  in  perfect  com- 
posure, smiling  at  their  friends  and  the  bright  day.     The 
Prado  was  lined  with  vehicles.      It  had  been   announced 
a  day  or  so  before  that  General  Prim  was  about  to  leave 
Madrid  for  Vichy,  and  every  one  of  consideration  in  the 
city  had  driven  out  for  the  last  rally  of  the  season.     Two 
large    detachments    of    cavalry   were   exercising.       The 
gayety,  the  crowd,  the  voices,  the  richness  of  the  ladies' 
dresses,  the  splendor  of  the  uniforms,  the  strains  of  the 
band,  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  feet,  the  dust,  the  heat  and 
the  emotion    became    confused    into    one    overpowering 
sensation  of  life,  and  it  seemed  like  the  beginning  of  a 
second  Spring.     On  some  faces  one  read  defiance,   on 
others  hope,  on  others  chagrin,  on  others  contentment, 
on  some  cruelty,  on  more  mockery,  on  all — expectancy. 

The  Countess  remained  out  as  long  as  usual,  but,  as 


X90  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

she  was  on  the  point  of  driving  homewards,  one  of  the 
many  gentlemen  who  rode  up  to  address  her,  sHpped  a 
small   note  into  her  hand.     The  action  was  too  skilfully- 
done  to  be  perceived  by  any,  and,  after  a  few  trivial  re- 
marks, he  turned  his  horse  away  and  was  soon   trotting 
at  a  rapid  pace  toward  the  Casa  del  Ayuntamiento.     The 
Countess  was  able  to  conceal  her  agitation,  yet  the  mo- 
ment was  one  of  grave  danger  and  anxiety.     It  was  im- 
possible under  the  vigilance  of  a  hundred  jealous  eyes  to 
read   the    communication  which  she  had  just   received. 
To  wait  until  she  reached  home  might  mean,  perhaps,  a 
loss  of  time  so  disastrous  that  many  lives  would  have  to 
pay  the  forfeit.     In  this  extremity  her  presence  of  mind 
did  not  fail.     Fortunately,  it  was  not  unusual  for  ladies, 
particularly  those  of  the  old  school,  to  visit  the  Chapel  of 
Our  Lady  of  Atocha  which  stood  at  the  extreme  end  of 
the  Prado.     She  gave  her  coachman  a  hurried  order  to 
drive  there.     She  alighted  from  her  carriage  with  Brigit, 
and    the   two    entered   the   church,   where   several  well- 
known  leaders  of  Madrid  society  were  already  praying 
before   the   famous   image   of  the   Blessed  Virgin.     The 
Chapel   was  dark.     A  dim  light  was  blazing,  however, 
over  one  of  the  confessionals,  but  it  was  not  sufficient  to 
read  by  unless  one  entered  the  box  itself.     The  Countess 
waited  for  some  moments  in  despair,  when,  to  her  relief, 
the  priest  left  his  seat  evidently  to  fetch  something  from 
the  sacristy  or  to  consult  his  Superior.     As  though  to  as- 
sure any  intending  penitent  that   his  absence  would  be 
short,  he  turned  the  jet  a  little  higher.     As   the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  died  away,  Joanna  slipped  into  the  confes- 
sional  and  opened   the  note  with  trembling  fingers.      It 
was  written  in  cypher.     She  understood  its  meaning  and 
burst  into  tears.     The  police  would  be  sent  that  night  to 
take  possession  of  her  villa  at  Loadilla.      Pezos  was  not 
expected  to  live.      He  was  delirious  and  talking  dangerous 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  191 

matter.  She  rose  from  her  knees,  pressed  her  palms  to 
her  eyes,  and,  with  an  unmoved  countenance,  rejoined 
her  companion.  They  both  said  a  prayer  before  leaving 
the  church,  and  then,  with  terror  in  their  hearts,  they 
drove  homeward  through  the  splendid  crowd,  smiling 
with  it  and  upon  it. 

The  Convent  bell  was  ringing  for  some  extra  service  as 
they  reached  the  house.  The  event  was  not  unusual,  for 
the  Sisters  were  often  asked  to  offer  a  special  prayer  for 
the  sick  and  dying,  the  tempted  and  distressed.  Yet  the 
Countess  turned  pale.  It  seemed  to  her  an  ominous  sign, 
and,  instead  of  driving  to  her  own  private  entrance,  she 
went  at  once  to  the  side  door  of  the  nunnery. 

"  For  whom  are  you  ringing,  Sister?  "  she  asked  from 
the  nun  who  answered  her  summons.  She  was  told  that 
a  patient  had  been  brought  there  who  was  too  ill  to  be 
taken  to  the  hospital.  He  had  been  given  a  room  to 
himself.  His  groans  were  so  loud  and  he  uttered  his 
prayers  with  such  fierceness  that  they  sounded  like  blas- 
phemy. 

"  Let  me  see  him,"  said  the  Countess. 

The  poor  fellow  was  lying  on  a  pallet  bed  in  a  small 
room  with  whitewashed  walls  which  was  usually  occupied 
by  the  sacristan.  He  pretended  not  to  recognize  his 
visitors,  but,  on  their  approach,  moaned  heavily  and 
begged  for  a  little  wine  and  water. 

"  We  will  stay  with  him,"  said  the  Countess  to  the  nun 
who  was  with  her.      "Fetch  him  the  wine." 

"Ah,  Luciano, "  said  she,  when  the  Sister  had  passed 
out  of  hearing,  "what  has  happened  to  you?"  Then  she 
leaned  over  him  while  he  told  his  story  : — 

"  The  Marquis  told  me  to  take  a  man  and  two  of  the 
best  horses  to  Loadilla.  When  I  got  to  the  bridge  I  was 
stopped  by  Captain  Avion.  I  had  time  to  give  warning 
to  my  man  and  he  rode  off  uith  my  master's  horses,  but 


192  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

I  was  taken  prisoner,  and  brought  before  the  General.  I 
told  him  that  I  was  neither  a  priest  nor  a  Carlist,  but  only 
a  poor  horse  thief,  so  I  begged  him  to  spare  my  life  and 
let  me  join  his  army.  I  believe  he  would  have  taken  me 
too,  if  some  beast  there  whh  him  had  not  said — 'Vah  ! 
he  is  one  of  Pezos's  curs  and  the  horses  belong  to  Pezos. 
He  is  a  spy.'  So  they  took  me  out  into  the  yard,  tied  my 
hands  and  stood  me  to  the  wall  to  shoot  me.  Then,  by 
the  mercy  of  God,  the  Mayor  and  some  of  his  friends 
came  up,  and  he  told  the  General  that  he  knew  me  to  be 
no  conspirator  but  a  thorough  blackguard  with  three 
wives.  So  they  gave  me  a  lot  of  drink,  robbed  me  of 
every  penny  I  had,  broke  many  of  my  bones  and  kicked 
me  out  into  the  road,  where  I  was  picked  up  for  a  dead 
man.  That  was  an  escape,  but  there  willbe  worse  things 
coming." 

"  We  must  go  to  Loadilla  to-night,"  said  Brigit,  speak- 
ing for  the  first  time.  She  breathed  the  rest  into  Marie- 
Joseph's  ear. 

At  the  Villa,  at  Loadilla,  there  were  not  incriminating 
papers  only,  but  a  large  secret  store  of  bayonets,  swords 
and  ammunition  for  the  next  Carlist  rising.  If  these  were 
found,  the  Countess  could  not  hope  for  mercy  :  it  would 
mean  death  or  banishment.  She  grew  pale  at  Brigit's 
whispered  counsel,  but  she  seemed  to  give  her  assent, 
and,  leaving  Luciano  to  the  sisters,  the  two  women  stole 
away  by  an  underground  passage  to  the  private  cells — 
which  they  used  during  Holy  Week  and  at  times  of 
retreat,  and  where  each  kept  a  nun's  habit,  coif  and 
wimple  in  case  of  hard  necessity.  They  put  on  this  dis- 
guise and  crept  out,  unobserved,  through  the  Convent 
yard.  It  was  not  yet  dusk  and  they  were  obliged  to  walk 
by  circuitous  and  dirty  streets  to  the  railway  station — 
where,  jostled  by  the  crowd,  they  waited  in  an  agony  of 
apprehension   for    the   slow    and    over-due    market-train 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  193 

bound  for  Loadilla.  On  reaching  their  destination — they 
trudged  to  the  Villa.  The  hour  was  about  ten.  Above 
them  the  sky  was  blue  and  starry  :  they  could  see  the 
shadow  and  smell  the  sweet,  fragrance  of  the  pine  woods. 
Lay  sisters  were  frequently  sent  on  errands  between 
Loadilla  and  the  Convent  at  Madrid.  The  sentry — who 
stood  before  the  high  iron  gates  of  the  Villa — permitted 
his  mistress  and  Brigit  to  pass  unrecognized  without  a 
word.  All  was  still  in  the  house  :  no  servant  was  there. 
The  sentry  and  his  family  slept  in  a  lodge  by  the  en- 
trance. 

The  Countess  and  Brigit  each  took  matches  and  went 
swiftly  from  room  to  room  setting  light  to  the  hangings. 

"  It  burns  1  It  burns  !  "  said  Brigit.  But  the  older 
woman  could  not  speak.  They  crept  out  by  one  of  the 
windows  at  the  back  and  escaped  through  the  garden 
into  the  road,  where,  a  mile  or  so  distant,  there  was  an 
old  wind-mill,  long  out  of  use.  They  reached  this  at  last. 
The  ladder  which  led  up  to  the  loft  was  brittle  and  very 
steep,  but  the  two  climbed  up — always  silent — and,  from 
the  top  loft  of  all,  they  watched  the  Villa  burning  in  the 
distance. 

"  Dogs  !  dogs  !  dogs  !  "  cried  the  Countess  ;  "we  shall 
beat  them  !     Wait  till  the  flames  reach  the  gunpowder  !  " 

At  first  they  saw  pale  garlands  of  blue  smoke  winding 
up  toward  the  stars.  Then  the  house  seemed  a  black 
caldron  of  bright  serpents  :  flames  filled  the  sky,  and 
soon  a  tremendous  explosion  shook  the  earth.  The  roof 
of  the  Villa  fell  in,  and,  stick  by  stick,  the  whole  fabric 
was  levelled  with  the  ground.  For  two  hours  they 
watched  without  speaking. 

"  We  must  not  forget,"  said  Marie-Joseph  at  last,  "that 
they  will  come  after  us.  Can  you  hear  the  soldiers 
tramping?     We  must  not  be  taken  alive,  Brigit." 

"  No,"  said  the  girl. 
13 


194  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

The  wall  of  the  mill-loft  in  which  they  stood  was  low, 
and  suddenly  they  feared  to  look  out  through  the  narrow 
windows  for  fear  of  receiving- gunshot  in  their  eyes.  And 
all  the  time,  the  mill  was  slowly  revolving-in  the  wind, 
round  and  round,  although  there  was  no  grain  to  be 
ground.  The  one  sound  they  could  hear  was  the  creaking 
of  the  worn  machinery.  There  may  have  been  a  hundred 
men  below — or  none. 

"  It  will  begin  soon,"  said  the  Countess.  "  They  will 
come  without  a  word  of  warning.  We  shall  be  like  rats 
in  a  trap.     But  not  live  rats — never  that." 

Each  one  made  a  little  pile  of  hemp  and  sat  down  before 
it  v^'ith  a  match — ready  at  the  first  signal  of  attack — to 
speed  the  work  of  destruction.  Yet — even  with  death  so 
imminent — they  had  dragged  a  heavy  board  between 
themselves  and  the  wall,  as  some  protection  against  the 
enemy  and  the  night  air. 

"  Do  you  hear  them  ?  ''  asked  Brigit. 

"I  think  so,"  said  the  Countess. 

Yet  nothing  came. 

'*  Hark  !  "  exclaimed  the  Countess.  "  They  have  come. 
Be  quick." 

Each  one  struck  a  match — and  yet  waited.  They  were 
obeying  the  set  plans  of  many  a  week.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  say — nothing  to  re-consider.  The  worst  had  hap- 
pened— that  was  all. 

"Do  you  really  hear  them  .?  "  asked  Brigit. 

"A  gypsy  once  told  me  that  I  should  die  by  burning," 
replied  the  Countess.  She  lit  her  flax.  Brigit  did  the 
same. 

The  Countess  put  her  lips  to  the  flame  and  breathed 
upon  it  with  all  her  strength. 

"Coax  it,"  she  said  to  Brigit.      "Coax  it." 

The  fire  crept  like  thin  snakes  across  the  floor  and 
mounted  higher  and  higher. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  195 

"  But  the  flax  will  soon  be  gone,"  said  the  Countess. 
"What  can  we  burn  next?  Oh,  think  of  something." 
She  tore  off  her  coif — it  burnt  but  slowly.  "We  want  a 
blaze — a  quick  blaze — our  clothes  would  only  smoulder." 
In  her  perplexity  she  put  up  her  hand  to  her  head  and, 
in  doing  so,  touched  her  hair.  There  were  some  shears 
hanging  on  the  wall.  She  pointed  to  them  and  Brigit 
understood  the  gesture.  She  took  them  from  the  hook 
and  waited  while  the  Countess  shook  out  her  magnificent 
white  hair.  It  fell  below  her  knees  and  covered  her  like 
a  veil  of  silver  gauze. 

"Quick — quick  !"  said  she.  It  was  all  cut  off  and 
thrown  to  the  flames.  How  quickly  it  burnt !  But  it  did 
its  work.  In  a  second  the  flames  reached  the  roof  and 
the  thatching. 

"Put  your  arms  round  me,  Brigit,"  said  the  Countess. 
"When  we  are  dead  we  shall  not  be  forgotten.  They 
will  know  that  there  is  still  some  royal  blood  in  Spain." 

The  tears  that  sprang  to  Brigit's  eyes  were  scorched 
before  they  could  fall. 

"This  is  war.     This  is  martyrdom,"  said  the  Countess. 

Their  faces  were  transfigured,  and  that  extraordinary 
exaltation  which  seems  to  fill  the  human  soul  in  moments 
of  great  peril,  great  joy,  or  great  despair  had  made  them 
insensible  alike  to  horror  and  pain.  The  boards  beneath 
their  feet  were  cracking,  and,  from  time  to  time,  a  tongue 
of  fire  darted  out  from  the  wall  and  singed  the  heavy 
serge  of  their  skirts.  So  intense  was  the  heat  that  Brigit 
— following  a  tender  impulse — began  to  fan  her  com- 
panion's cheeks  with  a  soft  handkerchief.  But  what 
was  that .-'  The  shots  of  men  in  the  road  below.  The 
Countess  stepped  nearer  the  blaze. 

"  Look  !"  said  she.     "Look!" 

The  smoke  was  now  blinding,  but  both  women  could 
see  the  dark  outline  of  a  man's  head  appearing;  above  the 


196  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

stairway.  They  uttered  the  pass-word  of  the  Carlist 
party.  It  was  answered  in  a  voice  that  Brigit  knew  well. 
Then  her  strength  and  the  strong  desire  to  live  came 
back  to  her. 

She  carried  Marie-Joseph — who  was  no  longer  conscious 
— to  the  trap-door,  where  strong  arms  lifted  her — with 
her  pitiful  burden — to  the  small  room  below.  One  danger 
was  past.  There  were  still  others.  She  saw  a  wild  blaze 
above  her  head.  She  heard  the  crash  of  falling  wood- 
work. Would  the  long  worm-eaten  ladder  which  led  to 
the  ground  bear  the  unaccustomed  strain  of  that  night  .'* 

"You  go  first,"  said  Robert — for  it  was  he — "  there  are 
several  waiting  for  you  below.      Have  no  fear." 

She  obeyed,  and  when  she  had  reached  the  ground  he 
followed  her — carrying  the  Countess.  For  the  rest  she 
remembered  only  being  held  upon  a  horse — which  gal- 
loped she  knew  not  where.  There  seemed  a  large  num- 
ber of  riders — all  silent  and  desperate, 

Robert  had  placed  the  two  women  in  front  under  the 
care  of  those  who  knew  the  country  better  than  himself. 
Prim's  soldiers  were  in  pursuit — as  Brigit  heard  after- 
wards— and  if  four  men  in  the  rear  of  her  escort  had  not 
put  the  hunters  off  the  scent  by  the  stratagem  of  hang- 
ing back  and  taking  a  side-road,  the  whole  band  must 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  The  gallant 
four  were  caught :  three  were  shot  dead  in  their  saddles  : 
Orange — who  was  the  fourth — was  dangerously  wounded 
and  left  in  a  ditch  for  dead.  But  the  lives  and  the  suf- 
fering were  not  given  and  offered  in  vain.  The  rest  es- 
caped with  whole  skins  and  reached  a  place  of  safety 
ere  the  morning. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  197 


CHAPTER  X. 

When  Robert  came  to  his  senses,  he  found  himself 
lying  on  moist  ground — half-suffocated  under  a  weight 
so  cold  and  unyielding,  that,  with  his  scarce  awakened 
reason  still  dreaming  between  unconsciousness  and  death 
— he  fancied  that  it  was  a  grave-stone.  He  stirred,  and 
knew  then  from  the  sharp  agony  in  all  his  limbs  that, 
whether  buried  or  abandoned,  he  was  yet  alive.  Again 
he  strucorled  to  rise.  This  time  he  succeeded.  The 
weight  was  the  dead  body  of  one  of  his  three  companions. 
The  other  two — stripped  of  all  save  their  shirts — were 
lying  a  little  farther  on,  face-downwards,  in  a  pool  which 
even  the  moonlight  could  not  make  pale.  He  found 
himself  standing  in  a  field  of  stubble  divided  from  the 
road  by  a  low  hedge.  The  scene  was  deserted :  the 
grim  outline  of  the  fortress  some  miles  beyond  made  a 
blot  on  the  deep-blue  horizon  :  there  was  not  a  sound  of 
bird  or  insect  and  yet  there  seemed  a  sort  of  breathing  in 
the  air  as  though  live  creatures  were  sleeping  somewhere 
near.  Robert  peered  over  the  hedge.  The  four  horses 
had  been  secured  by  their  reins  to  a  tree  some  yards 
higher  up,  and  there,  huddled  together,  they  were  dozing 
as  they  stood.  Any  attempt  to  ride  back  to  Loadilla  and 
from  there  to  Madrid  would  have  been  madness.  Men 
were  no  doubt  even  then  on  their  way  from  the  fort  to 
fetch  the  animals,  which  were  valuable.  The  roads,  too, 
would  be  carefully  guarded.  Orange's  arm  hung  numb 
and  lifeless  at  his  side.  His  shoulder  was  fractured.  He 
had  a  wound  in  his  leg.  To  stand  upright  in  that  clear 
atmosphere  was  to  make  himself  a  target  for  every  watch- 


198  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

man  hiding  near  or  on  guard  in  the  distance.  He  re- 
solved to  crawl  as  best  he  might  over  the  stubble  till 
he  came  to  some  hut  or  habitation.  The  field  pos- 
sibly belonged  to  some  peasant- farmer  or  to  the  owner 
of  the  burned  mill.  iVnd  the  working  classes  were  notori- 
ously opposed  to  Prim.  At  any  rate — there  was  a  little 
hope  one  way  :  the  other  way  meant  inevitable  destruc- 
tion. With  the  maimed  arm  slung  between  the  fastening 
of  his  flannel  shirt  he  crept  along — in  pain  so  great  that, 
but  for  his  pride  and  the  love  of  freedom,  capture  in  itself 
— even  a  shooting-down — would  have  come  as  a  relief. 
He  had  advanced  about  fifty  yards  with  his  one  free 
hand,  his  face  and  his  knees  streaming  with  blood,  when 
a  bullet  whistled  past  his  ears.  This  was  followed  by 
two  others  in  rapid  succession  :  he  lay  still — as  yet 
untouched.  A  fourth  bullet  grazed  his  ear.  And  then  he 
saw,  moving  toward  him,  the  figure  of  a  man.  He  felt 
for  his  own  pistol.  It  was  gone.  The  figure  halted  and 
called  out  in  a  boyish  treble, — 

"Do  you  surrender?     I  have  ten  others  with  me." 

"Who  are  you  ?  "  said  Robert. 

"  I  am  a  Lieutenant  !  "  said  the  youth. 

"  I  am  an  Englishman  and  I  am  wounded." 

"  Did  I  wound  you  ? " 

"Not  you.     Others." 

"I  have  ten  great  hulking  fellows  with  me,"  repeated 
the  Lieutenant,  drawing  nearer.  "  But — for  the  love  of 
God — don't  faint.  Are  you  for  the  Government  or  for 
Don  Carlos  ? " 

"For  Don  Carlos,"  he  raid  at  once. 

The  Lieutenant  burst  into  tears  of  joy. 

"So  am  I,"  said  he,  "but  I  have  no  one  with  me  and 
I'm  not  a  Lieutenant.     I  am  a  girl  !  " 

Robert  looked  at  her  small  brown  face  and  her  boy's 
clothes. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  199 

"And  do  you  wander  about  alone — like  this?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  have  a  dagger  and  my  pistols.  And  I  am  a  Navar- 
raise. " 

"But  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"I  am  watching  for  a  signal.  Till  it  comes — I  hide  in 
a  hole  in  the  ground.  My  brother  is  killed  and  I  have 
taken  his  place.     Can  you  crawl  a  little  farther?" 

"  Not  much  farther." 

"  Do  your  best.     I  can  make  the  ground  easier." 

She  pulled  off  her  jacket  and  cast  it  over  the  stubble 
till,  in  fearful  torment,  he  had  made  his  way  over  so  much 
land  as  it  covered.  Then  he  raised  himself  a  little  on  his 
right  arm,  she  drew  the  jacket  from  under  him  and  spread 
it  anew.  This  was  repeated  eight  times  or  more  till  he 
reached  her  place  of  ambush — which  proved  to  be  a  dry 
well,  scarcely  a  man's  height  in  depth,  cut  into  the  earth 
and  concealed  by  little  squares  of  turf  and  stubble  care- 
fully placed  on  its  cover.  This  she  removed.  Orange, 
at  her  entreaty,  descended  first  and  then  he  lost  conscious- 
ness. The  well  was  small — two  could  sit  upright  on  the 
bench  which  had  been  placed  there,  but  when  he  fell  for- 
ward there  was  only  standing  room  left  for  his  companion. 
She  poured  a  little  wine  down  his  throat  and  then  climbed 
up  to  the  field  to  gather  some  leaves  from  the  hedges  for 
his  wound.  She  found  what  she  wanted  and  was  return- 
ing when,  to  her  terror,  she  heard  the  sound  of  horsemen 
in  the  road.  She  threw  herself  on  a  level  with  the  earth, 
but  it  was  too  late.  She  had  been  seen.  An  officer  fol- 
lowed by  six  riders  leaped  over  the  hedge.  Without  a 
question  or  further  warning  they  fired.  Two  bullets 
pierced  her  back.  One  of  the  men  dismounted,  rolled 
her  over  and  sent  a  third  shot  through  her  heart.  And  so 
another  life  was  sacrificed  in  the  King's  Cause.  The 
trampling  of  horses  overhead   was    the  first  sound  that 


200  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

greeted  Robert's  reviving  sense.  Then  he  heard  a  w^oman's 
cry  of  horror  and  the  report  of  pistols.  He  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  came  out — he  l<new  not  how — from  his  shelter. 
The  moon  was  still  so  bright  that  it  might  have  been  the 
day.  His  features  could  be  plainly  seen  and  the  officer 
in  charge  of  the  band  must  have  decided  at  once  that 
Orange  was  neither  a  peasant  nor  a  Spaniard. 

"I  am  not  armed, "said  Orange,  "and  I  am  wounded." 

"  Are  you  for  the  Government?  " 

Orange  looked  down  at  the  lifeless  body  of  his  poor 
little  friend. 

"  For  Don  Carlos  !  "  said  he. 

The  order  of  arrest  was  given.  He  was  seized  by  his 
fractured  shoulder,  and,  as  they  could  not  tie  his  arms  be- 
hind him,  they  strapped  them  to  his  sides.  He  was  in 
great  suffering,  but  the  dead  girl  on  the  ground  made  all 
other  things  seem  light.  They  put  him  on  a  horse  and  led 
him  from  the  field  to  the  high-road. 

"  And  what  will  you  do — with  her  .^  "  asked  Orange. 

Those  who  were  following,  turned  back,  called  her  a 
vile  name  and  kicked  her  into  the  well. 

"To  the  Fort !"  said  their  Captain,  impatiently.  ''To 
the  Fort ! " 

Robert  leaned  forward  over  the  horse's  neck,  and  so  they 
marched  for  three  miles  when  they  halted  and  gave  him 
some  strong  wine.  For  he  was  not  to  die — yet.  The 
General  must  see  the  prize  and  learn  his  story.  This  was 
no  common  prey.  At  daybreak  they  reached  the  fort. 
Orange  was  placed  on  a  litter  and  carried  into  a  cell  where 
a  surgeon  was  soon  in  attendance.  He  had  a  certain 
skill  and  he  did  his  work  well,  if  roughly.  When  he  had 
finished,  he  laughed. 

"There  are  two  things,"  said  he,  "an  Englishman  will 
never  learn — How  to  love,  and  how  to  groan  !  You  have 
no  feeling  ! " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  aoi 


CHAPTER  XI. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  Countess  Des  Escas,  Brigit  and 
their  protectors  had  found  asylum  in  the  palace  of 
a  Brazilian  banker  of  Jewish  extraction — the  Baron 
Zeuill,  who  was  held  to  be  one  of  General  Prim's 
supporters.  Officially,  this  may  have  been  the  case. 
Secretly,  he  remained  a  loyal  friend  to  certain  members 
of  the  Carlist  conspiracy — to  certain  members,  in  fact,  of 
all  the  conspiracies.  General  Prim  himself  had  not  yet 
fully  resolved  on  his  own  course  of  action.  There  was, 
perhaps,  no  especially  safe  play  open  to  a  political  game- 
ster who  boasted  openly  that  he  held  seven  kings  up  his 
sleeve.  He  was  ready,  however,  to  rally  to  the  strongest 
party  willing  to  accept  him  as  their  chief;  and,  until  that 
question  was  decided,  it  seemed  unwise  to  persecute  im- 
prudently the  eminent  among  any  faction.  The  Baron 
Zeuill's  wealth  was  great,  and,  while  Generals  could  be 
banished  and  the  impoverished  nobility  placed  under 
arrest,  it  was  apparent  alike  to  the  Isabellist,  the  Unionist, 
the  Carlist,  and  the  Progressionist  that  gentlemen  who 
had  money  to  lend  were  best  left  with  a  free  hand.  For 
this  reason,  the  land  within  his  gates  enjoyed  a  privilege 
which  no  altar,  in  those  wild  days,  could  promise.  It 
was  the  one  patch  of  peaceful  territory  in  the  whole  of 
Spain.  But  the  gates  were  always  barred,  and  those  that 
passed  the  sacred  boundary  came  as  guests — not  as  fugi- 
tives. 

On  that  memorable  night  in  August,  the  Baron  had  be- 
trayed more  agitation  of  mind  than  was  usual  with  him. 


i02  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

From  the  cupola  above  his  private  study,  he  had  watched 
alone  the  reddened  sky  above  Loadilla.  His  palace  stood 
on  an  elevation,  and  at  last  he  could  discern  moving 
specks  upon  the  high-road — sometimes  lost  to  sight  in  the 
winding  of  the  way,  and  again  re-appearing.  Nearer  and 
nearer  they  came  although  they  appeared  to  crawl — black, 
undistinguishable  atoms  with  a  whole  Heaven  and  its  mul- 
titude of  worlds  above  them  and  a  great  country — to  be 
conquered — stretched  out  beneath  their  feet.  Still  they 
crept  on — mere  ants  or  little  toys  in  seeming — on  and  on 
— each  with  a  life  at  stake  and  a  soul  burdened  with  eter- 
nity and  ten  thousand  hopes  and  fears. 

When  they  reached  a  certain  point,  the  Baron  could 
watch  their  progress  no  longer.  A  heavy  wood  inter- 
vened between  them  and  his  sight.  But  the  wood  was 
within  the  charmed  circle  of  his  estate.  He  was  able  to 
breathe  more  easily  and  the  hard  lines  vanished  from  his 
usually  pliant  mouth. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  when  the  fugitives — with  faces 
paler  than  the  dust — galloped  into  the  courtyard.  The 
Countess  Des  Escas  had  been  strapped  into  a  saddle-seat 
behind  Antonio  de  Bodava — a  young  officer  who  became 
well  known  two  years  later  as  an  aide-de-camp  to  Mar- 
shal Elio.  Brigit  rode  similarly  behind  the  Marquis  of 
Castrillon.  These  gentlemen — and  the  remaining  four 
were  members  of  the  "Royal  Guard"  of  Don  Carlos. 
One  of  the  horses  on  halting  panted  heavily  and  then 
dropped  dead.  At  this  both  women  who,  till  that  mo- 
ment, had  seemed  petrified  with  terror,  burst  into  tears. 

"  That  is  all  right,"  said  the  Baron,  "the  poor  beast 
has  saved  their  reason." 

Brigit  wept  for  the  horse,  but  there  was  another  cause 
for  the  sharp  grief  which  hurt  more  fiercely  than  all  the 
flames  of  the  burning  mill.  She  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  of  those  around  her. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  203 

"Are  we  all  here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"All,"  said  Bodava,   "  except  four  !  " 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  the  women, 
who  were  waiting  in  attendance,  lifted  her  as  though  she 
were  a  child  and  bore  her  from  the  scene. 

"We  have  had  a  hard  journey,"  said  the  Countess, 
smiling.  She  had  regained,  during  the  ride,  a  deceptive 
strensfth.  She  refused  all  aid — save  the  Baron's  arm — and 
walked  with  a  firm  tread  to  the  apartments  which  had 
been  prepared  for  her.  On  the  threshold  she  paused, 
looked  in,  and  pressed  Zeuill's  hand. 

"  I  did  not  think,"  she  said,  "that  I  should  ever  see  this 
room  again."  That  was  her  sole  reference  to  the  perils 
she  had  escaped.  It  would  have  seemed  to  her  dis- 
courteous to  speak  of  political  matters  to  a  friend  who  had 
to  maintain  at  least  an  appearance  of  absolute  neutrality. 
The  discretion  was  characteristic  of  the  woman  and  the 
times — when  a  man's  foes  were  of  his  own  household  and 
father  was  divided  against  son.  The  Baron  surrendered 
her  to  the  female  servants,  and  returned  to  the  officers 
who — full  of  youth,  excitement,  information  and  content 
— were  talking  in  the  dining-hall  below. 

"  In  five  minutes  those  ladies  would  have  been  a  little 
heap  of  ashes,"  said  Captain  Rastro,  a  little  man  whose 
astonishing  vivacity  and  bass  voice  made  him  the  orator 
of  the  group — ' '  the  rescue  was  a  miracle.  As  for  the 
Villa  there  was  nothing  left  but  this — "  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  small  black  and  red  banner,  bordered  with  silk 
and  gold,  bearing  the  portrait  of  Carlos  VII. 

"I  always  look  for  an  omen,"  said  he. 

"  And  where  are  the  four  missing  men  ?  "  said  Zeuill. 

"I  don't  know.  They  are  young  Hausee  and  three 
volunteers — fine  fellows — I  forget  their  names — and  well 
mounted." 

"Who  is  Hausee  .'*  "  aked  the  Baron. 


204  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  Hausee,"  said  Castrillon.  "  is  a  mystery.  He  travels 
with  Lord  Wight  and  looks  like  an  Englishman." 

"The  Hausees,"  observed  Zeuill,  "have  always  stood 
by  the  Bourbons.     I  thought  I  knew  them  all." 

"  This  one  is  the  son  of  Henri-Dominque  de  Hausde." 

"The  religious.'*  "  said  Zeuill,  with  a  cynical  smile. 

"Yes.     He  apostatized  and  married  a  Protestant." 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"Doing  penance  at  La  Trappe. ' 

"I  hope  Pere  Hyacinthe  will  soon  join  him  I  "  said 
Bodava. 

"And  the  lady ?  "  said  Zeuill. 

"Dead — long  ago.     She  was  disowned." 

"Adventurers  run  in  the  family,"  said  Zeuill.  "I 
wonder  what  has  become  of  him  ?  " 

Rastro  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  He  may  be  shot,"  said  he,  "  or  he  may  be  a  prisoner. 
But  he  rides  like  four  devils  and  he  could  not  have  been 
taken  easily." 

They  were  now  eating  and  drinking.  During  their 
flight — each  man  had  been  for  himself — and  egoism  once 
strained  to  passionate  excess  does  not  soon  relax  into  its 
normal  form.  They  were  all  willing  enough  to  rush  out 
and  brave  danger  again.  At  a  word  of  command — they 
would  have  ridden  back  to  Robert's  rescue,  but  the  word 
had  not  been  given  and  so  they  drank,  loosened  their 
clothes  and  rested. 

"The  affair  has  ended  well,"  said  Zeuill,  "but  it  was 
badly  organized.  Women — no  matter  how  clever — are 
always  for  desperate  measures.  Suppose  now  that  you 
had  reached  them  five  minutes  later." 

"  Horrible  !  But  while  there  are  such  women  to  be 
saved — men  do  not  arrive  too  late  !  "  said  the  gallant 
Bodava. 

"One    thing    troubles    me,"    said    Zeuill,     with  some 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS,  205 

abruptness,  "the  name  of  Hausee  does  not  appear  in 
any  of  my  papers.  It  could  not  have  escaped  my  at- 
tention." 

"  I  can  explain  that,"  said  Rastro.  ''When  he  offered 
to  join  us  he  called  himself  Robert  Orange  and  Dorre- 
garay  would  not  accept  him.  English  volunteers  are  a 
mere  embarrassment.  They  are  either  mercenaries  or 
writers  of  memoirs  or  lunatics.  Who  wants  them  ?  But 
this  fellow  was  determined.  He  tried  every  argument. 
'We  have  yet  to  learn,' said  Dorregaray — you  know  his 
style — '  that  England  is  the  friend  of  Spain  or  of  Legit- 
imists anywhere.  She  is  always  on  the  side  of  usurpers 
and  rebels.  She  hates  the  Bourbons  ;  she  hates  all  the 
great  dynasties.  She  would  like  to  see  every  country  in 
Europe  weakened  by  civil  war.  I  know  your  cursed 
policy.'     Dorrdgaray  is  not  a  man  to  sugar  the  truth." 

"Go  on,"  said  Zeuill. 

"At  this,  the  Englishman,  who  is  a  giant,  brought  his 
fist  down  on  the  table.  'Leave  England  out  of  the  ques- 
tion,' said  he,  '  or  we  must  kill  each  other.  But  I  am  the 
son  of  Henri-Dominque  de  Hausee,  and  if  a  Hausde  may 
not  fight  for  Don  Carlos — who  may  ? '  Dorrdgaray  drew 
back.  '  If  that  is  the  case,"  he  answered,  '  I  am  enchanted, 
but,  pardon  me,  why  do  you  bear  the  name  of  Orange? 
In  Spain  it  does  not  spell  loyalty.'  I  thought  Hausde 
would  die  of  rage.  '  That  is  my  business,'  said  he,  '  but 
I  am  Robert  de  Hausee  and  I  can  prove  it.'  Dorregaray's 
moustache  went  straight  up.  '  When  you  have  proved 
it,' he  said,  'you  may  come  and  see  me  again.'  I  am 
certain  that  Hausee  would  have  fought  him  on  the  spot 
if  he  had  not  resolved,  plainly,  to  carry  his  point  at  every 
cost.  He  answered  very  quietly.  '  We  can  return  to  this 
matter  on  another  occasion,' said  he,  'but  in  the  mean 
time,  I  am  travelling  with  a  friend  who  can  identify  me 
— the  Earl  of  Wight.'  Dorregaray  stood  up.  'Who  is 
the  Earl  of  Wight  ? '  said  he.      '  We  know  nothing  about 


2o6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

him.'  Here  I  was  able  to  interfere.  I  called  Dorr^- 
garay  aside  and  reminded  him  that  Wight  had  given 
a  thousand  pounds  to  the  Cause.  Dorre'garay  was 
deeply  touched.  He  went  over  to  Hausde  and  embraced 
him.  '  In  these  times,'  said  he,  'one  cannot  be  too  care- 
ful. Volunteers  come  to  us — more  Catholic  than  the  Pope 
and  more  royalist  than  the  King.  It  is  an  old  story. 
They  demand  more  attention  than  Don  Carlos  himself 
and  they  expect  to  be  thanked  all  day.  When  the  least 
thing  goes  wrong,  they  set  up  a  howl  and  call  us 
traitors.  They  send  their  whines  to  every  newspaper, 
and  if  I  had  my  way — I  would  shoot  them  as  the  most 
dangerous  kind  of  spy.  But  I  felt  certain  that  you  were 
a  true  patriot  and  a  true  Hausde.  You  have  the  family 
eye  ! '  After  that  they  became  as  gay  as  Easter  !  We 
found,  too,  that  he  knew  the  young  Madame  and  all 
about  the  Countess  Des  Escas.  Poor  young  man  !  I 
hope  he  was  not  killed.  He  would  have  made  a  superb 
officer. " 

"  If  they  took  him  alive,"  said  Zeuill,  "  he  will  be  safe 
enough,  for  a  few  days  at  all  events.  You  say  that  he 
knows  Madame  Parflete. " 

"Yes — he  saved  her  life.  He  did  very  well. ''  Zeuill, 
at  this  piece  of  information,  looked  thoughtful. 

"She  might  be  able  to  tell  me  about  him,"  said  he,  at 
length,  "  I  must  save  him  if  I  can.  After  all,  he  is  an 
Hausee.     There  are  not  many  of  such  men  left." 

He  called  up  one  of  the  servants  as  he  spoke  and  sent 
him  with  a  message  to  Brigit.  The  answer  soon  came 
back. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Baron, 
"  I  will  leave  you  for  a  little." 

Two  of  them  had  fallen  asleep.  The  rest — including 
Rastro — were  but  half-awake  over  their  wine.  These 
tried  to  rise  as  the  Baron  went  out.  They  succeeded  in 
smiling. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  207 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Brigit  received  the  Baron  in  a  small  saloon  which 
adjoined  her  bedroom.  Neither  grief  nor  agitation  nor 
fatigue  had  told  upon  her  youth  and  splendid  health.  Her 
cheeks  were  burning  :  her  eyes  shone.  Hers  was  a  nature 
M^hich  faltered  only  under  disgrace — such  disgrace,  for 
instance,  as  her  husband's  dishonor  and  the  humiliations 
which  she  had  experienced  at  the  Chateau  de  Vieuville. 
But  danger  and  sorrow  seemed  to  call  out  her  finest  traits, 
and  among  them  that  capacity  for  devotion  to  imper- 
sonal interests  which  is  commonly  held  to  be  less  rare  in 
men  than  m  women. 

' '  I  have  just  left  the  Countess, "  she  said,  at  once  ;  ' '  she 
is  sleeping." 

"  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Baron,  "  and  since 
all  goes  so  well  here,  it  is  a  plainer  duty  to  wonder  how 
matters  may  be  going  elsewhere.  You  know  that  four 
members  of  the  party  are  missing.  One  of  them  is  Robert 
de  Hausee — to  whom,  I  understand,  we  owe  the  success 
of  this  night's  expedition.  If  he  has  been  taken  alive,  I 
may  be  able  to  save  him." 

"If  they  have  taken  him  at  all,  he  must  be  dead  or 
nearly  dead,"  answered  Brigit. 

"  Do  you  know  him  well  ?  " 

"My  husband  has  known  him  always." 

"Then  I  suppose  the  story  is  perfectly  true.  He  is  a 
legitimate  Hausee." 

Brigit  repeated  Robert's  history  as  she  had  heard  it 
from  Parflete.  She  added,  too,  all  she  knew  of  his  career 
in  England. 


2o8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"Then  why,"  said  Zeuill,  "should  he  mix  himself  in 
the  uncertain  fortunes  of  Don  Carlos  ?  Family  tradition, 
I  know,  stands  for  much,  but  when  it  makes  for  ruin — a 
man  brings  more  distinction  to  his  name  by  establishing 
a  new  precedent." 

He  watched  Brigit's  face  as  he  spoke,  but  her  expres- 
sion remained  inscrutable. 

"  If  we  could  say,"  he  went  on,  "that  he  joined  this 
ride  to-night  rather  out  of  friendship  for  yourself  than  for 
any  political  motive,  the  excuse  might  be  accepted. 
Otherwise,  we  may  have  difficulties.  Wait  before  you 
reply.  I  cannot  believe  that  in  your  own  case,  it  is 
wholly  a  matter  of  Carlist  rights  and  wrongs.  The 
Countess  Des  Escas  lost  her  husband  in  this  cause.  It  is 
her  creed  and  the  price  of  her  blood.  If  she  had  ten 
deaths  to  die  she  would  give  them  for  the  King.  But  you 
are  not  Spanish.  You  do  not  carry  in  your  soul  a  terrible 
inheritance  of  wrongs  to  avenge.  The  Seven  Years'  War 
is  not  within  your  remembrance.  I  daresay  that  you 
never  heard  it  spoken  of  till  you  came  to  Madrid — a  few 
short  weeks  ago." 

"  How  long  does  it  take  to  know  a  just  cause.?  "  asked 
Brigit. 

^'A  lifetime  is  often  too  short  a  while,"  said  the  Baron. 
"  I  am  an  old  man.  I  have  spent  my  days  among  kings, 
ex-kings,  and  pretenders.  I  have  seen  the  flower  of 
France  die  magnificently,  and  I  have  seen  nameless 
blackguards  die  magnificently.  All  I  have  learnt  from 
them  is  this — Might  may  win  many  battles  ;  Might  and 
Right  together  can  win  most  battles  ;  Right  by  itself — 
without  money  and  without  friends — counts  for  nothing." 

"  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say  .-' "  asked  Brigit. 

"  I  would  like  you  to  trust  me." 

"  I  do  that  most  heartily,  dear  Baron.  Are  we  not  here 
— under  your  roof     You  are  our  protector — our  friend," 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  209 

"Then  answer  one  question.  Did  you  know  that 
Robert  de  Hausee  was  a  Carlist  ?  " 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  so  serenely  that  it  was 
impossible  to  infer  anything  from  the  pause. 

"When  I  recognized  his  voice,"  she  said,  at  last,  "my 
surprise  was  great," 

"Did  you  think  his  presence — at  such  a  moment — in- 
explicable? " 

"I  thought  of  nothing.  It  might  have  been  a  miracle — 
I  did  not  know.  When  he  spoke  to  us,  the  Countess  and 
I  were  waiting  for  death." 

Zeuill  could  not  restrain  his  curiosity. 

"But  what  an  atrocious  plan  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Were 
you  afraid .'  " 

"No." 

"  Surely  you  were  glad  to  be  rescued  .?" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  I  marvelled,"  she  replied,  "at  the  Mercy  of  God  and 
His  Power.  We  had  not  hoped  for  life.  It  is  just  that 
one  or  two  should  die  for  many.  Our  secrets  were  burnt 
with  the  Villa.  They  can  prove  nothing  against  our 
friends." 

The  Baron  knit  his  brows  and  drew  some  documents 
from  his  pocket. 

"Tliere  is  another  matter,"  he  said,  "which  must  be 
settled  also.  It  concerns  yourself  and  your  own  safety. 
I  do  not  wish  to  frighten  you.  But  your  position  is  dan- 
gerous." 

Brigit  looked  up  and  it  almost  seemed  as  though  a  kind 
of  joy  transfigured  her  face.  Could  it  be  that,  in  her 
heart,  she  had  no  wish  to  live?  Zeuill  owned  himself 
perplexed  and  baffled. 

"lam  in  communication  with  your  father, "  he  said  ; 
"  His  Imperial  Highness  desires  me  to  put  a  proposal 
14 


2IO  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

before  you.  At  this  moment,  it  is  one  of  the  utmost 
importance." 

A  dark  flush  spread  over  her  cheeks  and  throat,  but  she 
made  no  response. 

"  Briefly,'"  continued  Zeuill,  "it  is  this.  You  will  as- 
sume the  title  and  rank  of  Countess  Veuberg ;  you  will 
consent  to  a  divorce  between  yourself  and  the  gen,tleman 
who  so  abused  the  Archduke's  confidence.  Your  life — 
your  girlhood,  I  should  say,  will  begin  afresh  and  more 
appropriately.  You  are  but  seventeen.  Let  me  entreat 
you  to  listen  to  advice.  In  order  to  save  you  any  un- 
necessary pain,  Mr.  Parflete  has  owned  his  perfect  readi- 
ness to  submit  to  your  decision  in  tlie  matter.  He  will 
be  liberally  provided  for.  His  interests — so  long  as  he 
avoids  Alberia — are  to  suffer  in  no  way." 

The  proud,  sensitive  and  courageous  girl  who  could 
meet  the  peril  of  a  cruel  death  with  undaunted  resolution, 
cowered  under  this  further  revelation  of  Parflete's  igno- 
miny. Zeuill,  who  had  scanned  her  face  in  vain  for  any 
sign  of  love  for  Robert  de  Hausee,  now,  at  all  events, 
read  plainly  enough  her  feeling  toward  the  exiled  Favor- 
ite.     Her  reply,  therefore,  was  the  more  amazing. 

"  My  father  means  kindly,"  she  said.  "  I  owe  him  my 
gratitude  and  affection.  But  I  have  a  rank  already — for 
I  am  his  lawful  daughter  born  of  a  true  marriage.  I 
promised  him  that  I  would  never  claim  him  publicly. 
I  will  therefore  take  such  a  name  and  such  a  title  only  as 
my  husband  can  give  me.  No  one,  I  suppose,  would 
dispute  my  claim  to  that." 

"  But  it  is  the  Archduke's  wish — indeed,  his  command, 
that  you  should  abandon  that  name.  It  is  an  offence — a 
degradation  to  him." 

"  He  gave  his  consent  to  the  marriage." 

"  In  the  first  place,  yes.     But  he  was  unaware  then — " 

Brigit  put  up  her  hand  : — 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  21 1 

"  Forgive  me.  We  can  say  no  more  on  that  subject. 
He  may  have  been  deceived  in  certain  respects;  he 
knew,  however,  that  I  was  his  daughter." 

"  Then  you  refuse  both  these  proposals." 

"Absolutely.  If  he  wishes  to  think  of  me  as  the 
Countess  of  Veuberg — let  him  first  admit  to  the  whole  of 
Alberia  his  marriage  with  my  mother." 

"  You  know,  Madame,  that  you  are  making  an  impos- 
sible request.  As  it  is,  His  Imperial  Highness  must  ad- 
vance with  great  caution.  It  will  be  understood  that  you 
have  certain  claims  on  his  favor — you  cannot,  in  reason, 
ask  him  to  publish  the  details  of  a  painful  and  abiding. 
.  .  .  grief — associated  with  his  early  days  in  Paris.  Hia 
affection  for  you  is  real.  It  is  an  open  secret  that  Lis 
domestic  affairs  are  far  from  happy.  His  one  child  it*  a 
disappointment — the  Archduchesses,  his  sisters,  are  dis- 
obedient and  plain.  He  turns  to  you  for  solace.  He 
rememl)ers — in  the  bitterness  and  vexation  of  State  affairs 
— the  sweet  nature,  the  accomplishments,  the  love  of 
your  incomparable  mother.  Would  that  generous  and 
noble  creature  wish  you  to  repulse  his  kindness  ?  It  may 
be  tardy,  but  it  comes  from  a  broken  heart.  I  cannot 
believe  that  your  harshness  will  last.  If  it  is  wounded 
pride,  Madame,  can  you  not  remind  yourself  that  he,  too, 
has  suffered  ? " 

"  God  knows  well  that  I  bear  my  father  no  malice. 
My  mother  loved  him  so  dearly  that  she  died  when  he 
left  her.  She  died,  too,  with  the  laughter  of  Paris  in  her 
ears  :  she  was  called  a  light  woman  who  had  danced  into 
the  Archduke's  favor  and  sobbed  herself  out  of  it  1  I 
have  heard  all  the  epigrams — or  most  of  them — that  XK'ere 
made  at  the  time.  They  were  amusing  :  they  were  lies 
that  were  almost  true  !  And  because  they  were  almost 
true,  they  killed  her.  Now  you  ask  me  to  admit  their  jus- 
tice by  calling  myself  the  Countess  of  Veuberg.     I  cannot 


212  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

do  it.     His   Imperial    Highness    is   kind,   but   I   cannot 
doit." 

Zeuill  poured  out  his  arguments  afresh.  He  used  every 
force  at  his  command — the  skill,  the  knowledge,  the 
training,  the  diplomatic  arts  acquired  in  a  lifetime  of  in- 
trigue.    But  to  no  purpose. 

"  Then,"  said  he,  at  the  end  of  a  fruitless  discussion 
which  had  lasted  two  hours,  "  you  refuse  to  accept  the 
title  of  Countess  Veuberg  because  you  regard  yourself  as 
an  Archduchess  of  Alberia  ?  You  have  a  very  clever  and 
a  very  charming  head,  but,  in  the  eighteenth  century,  it 
would  have  come  surely  enough  to  the  block  !  Your 
claim,  Madame,  is  romantic  and  untenable.  It  is  only 
right  to  tell  you  so." 

"  I  make  no  claim.  I  obey  my  father  most  willingly 
while  he  asks  me  to  remain  unknown  and  in  seclusion. 
It  is  now  when  he  asks  me  to  come  forward  and  accept  a 
mean  dignity  that  I  must  seem  ungracious.  I  begged 
him  to  let  me  retire  to  a  Convent.  He  would  not  allow 
that.  What  then  does  he  wish  ?  To  give  me  an  honor 
which  insults  my  mother's  name.     I  will  not  take  it." 

"  Then  you  quarrel  with  the  Archduke.?" 

"  I  hope  not.  I  would  have  him  think  of  me  as  his 
dutiful  daughter.  I  have  been  faithful  to  the  Countess 
Des  Escas  and  her  cause.  I  have  followed  his  instruc- 
tions at  every  point.  He  may  trust  me  to  the  death,  and 
he  will  not  have  reason  to  trust  me  less,  I  hope,  because 
I  find  no  reward  for  my  constancy  in  a  silly  title." 

"  Your  words  are  meek  enough,  Madame,  but  your 
spirit  would  not  be  understood.  It  puzzles  the  Archduke 
himself  Could  he  hear  you  now — he  would  doubt  your 
sincerity.  7  believe  you.  Few  men,  I  think,  would  do 
so.  I  yield  to  no  one  in  my  admiration  for  Madame 
Duboc,  who  was  certainly  the  canonical  wife  of  His 
Imperial  Highness.     But  she  is  dead  and  Europe  is  in  no 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  213 

tnood  to  hear  of  such  tales  about  Princes.  The  air  is  full 
of  revolution.  The  talk  is  not  of  rights  but  of  impostures. 
Where  the  King  of  France  has  fallen,  the  Emperor  of  the 
French  will  also  fall.  Mind  my  warning  and  keep  out  of 
all  conspiracies.  And  now  one  further  word — Can  you 
give  me  no  message  for  M.  de  Hausde  ? " 

"  He  may  be  dead." 

'  *  But  if  he  should  be  living  ?  " 

"Tell  him  that  we  cannot  be  grateful  till  we  know  that 
he  himself  is  out  of  danger." 

"I  hope  he  will  trust  me  more  fully  than  you  do — or 
it  will  be  hard  to  help  him." 

At  this  reproach  she  burst  into  tears. 

"Good  friend,"  she  said,  with  a  sob,  "  I  know  him  but 
distantly.  I  cannot  say  to  you  what  I  do  not  say  to  my- 
self .  .  .  but  ...  if  cutting  my  heart  from  my  body 
would  save  him — it  would  be  too  little.  Yet — and  this 
is  the  truth — that  would  not  be  because  I  want  to  see  him 
again.     There  is  no  happiness  that  way." 

The  Baron  checked  himself  in  a  remark  he  felt  tempted 
to  make  on  the  subject  of  her  divorce.  He  wished  her  a 
good  rest  and  then  withdrew.  Half  an  hour  later  he  was 
on  the  road  to  Loadilla — wondering  vainly,  no  doubt, 
which  of  three  deadly  things  was  the  least  dangerous — a 
woman's  tears,  a  woman's  protesta:ions,  or  her  incalcul- 
able cunning  in  affairs  of  love. 

The  very  frankness  of  Brigit's  last  speech  was,  to  the 
Baron's  mind,  the  one  mistake  in  diplomatic  play  of  a 
high  order.  He  decided  that  here,  possibly  from  fatigue, 
she  had  over-acted.  In  her  anxiety  to  conceal  her  real  de- 
signs and  anxieties,  she  had  suddenly  affected  a  violent 
devotion  for  Robert  de  Haus^e.  De  Hausee  was,  no 
doubt,  in  the  train  of  her  cavaliers.  But,  clearly,  she 
was  too  amiable  to  feel  more  than  a  passing  kindness 
toward  a  poor  unacknowledged  nobleman  with  little  to 


214  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

gain  and  that  still  to  be  sought.  The  necessity  for  her 
divorce  and  re-marriage  was  pressing.  Public  affairs  in 
Alberia  were  taking- a  sick  complexion.  The  Archduke 
had  alienated  himself  from  the  traditional  supporters  of 
the  Imperial  House.  Rich  adventurers  were  favored 
at  the  Court  to  the  exclusion  of  the  old  families  and  the 
better  class  of  his  own  subjects.  The  faithful  rallied 
round  his  young  son — an  unfortunate  lad  whose  follies 
and  extravagance  made  loyalty  a  Quixotic  virtue.  The 
discontented  retired  to  their  own  estates  to  wait  for  the 
downfall  of  a  Prince  of  whom  no  man  of  honor  could  think 
well  and  for  whom  even  the  creatures  he  encouraged  felt 
a  secret  contempt.  The  young  Archduchesses  were  re- 
bellious and  unbeautiful.  The  position  of  Charles  in 
Europe  was  not  so  secure  that  suitors  of  distinction  should 
come  begging  for  his  sisters  in  marriage,  and  they  were 
too  haughty  to  admit  the  advances  of  their  inferiors  in 
rank.  The  Archduke's  project  of  bestowing  one  on  his 
Great  Chamberlain  and  the  other  on  the  Keeper  of  the 
Privy  Purse  was  met  with  fury.  Both  of  these  gentlemen 
were  rich,  and  they  were  both  impatient  to  share  the 
flickering  glories  of  Imperialism.  Disappointment  worked 
in  them  so  strangely  that  a  touch  would  have  driven 
their  instincts  back  where  they  belonged — to  the  peo- 
ple. In  his  despair,  the  Archduke  remembered  Brigit. 
Why  should  she  not  come  to  Alberia  ?  His  Great  Cham- 
berlain was  human  and  beauty  still  went  for  something. 
Charles  could  make  her  a  Countess.  People  would  not 
think  the  worse  of  him  for  that.  He  was  considered 
inhuman  and  cold-blooded.  Recklessness  in  love — love 
under  any  aspect — had  never  been  associated  with  his 
name.  The  one  romantic  episode  in  his  life  had  been 
concealed  by  his  enemies — for  fear  lest  it  should  make 
him  even  a  shade  less  obnoxious,  and  by  his  friends — 
because  they  were  not  proud  of  their  part  in  the  affair. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  215 

Democracy — with  all  its  faults — was  on  the  side  of  injured 
women.  Pathetic  stories — with  a  marriage  ceremony  in 
the  argument — were  best  left  untold.  The  Archduke  him- 
self, however,  seemed  bent  on  a  course  of  action  which, 
had  Brigit  been  a  vain  or  a  weak  woman,  must  have  ruined 
them  both.  Zeuill  saw  in  her  refusal  but  the  policy  of  a 
bold  nature  making  for  the  highest  prize  or  none.  For 
himself,  the  issue  of  it  all  was  a  matter  of  indifference. 
His  passions  and  hopes  were  all  fixed  on  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  his  own  race  and  the  ultimate  triumph  of  the 
chosen  people.  To  him  all  Kings  and  Emperors,  Powers 
and  Dominions  were  as  pawns  in  the  great  struggl*^  be- 
tween Jew  and  Gentile.  , 


3i6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER   Xni. 

It  was  already  past  mid-day  when  the  Baron  reached 
the  fort  near  Loadilla. 

He  was  permitted  to  drive  into  the  barrack-yard — a  large 
piece  of  ground,  inform  a  parallelogram,  surrounded  by 
high  walls.  These  walls  were  pierced  by  three  rows  of 
small  windows  at  many  of  which,  soldiers,  some  in  their 
shirt-sleeves  and  some  without  shirts,  were  smoking,  chat- 
tering, or  staring  idly  at  a  party  of  recruits  who  were  exer- 
cising in  the  court  below.  The  vaulted  arch  througfh 
which  the  Baron  had  driven  ran  the  depth  of  the  whole 
building — from  the  fa9ade  to  the  yard.  It  was  separated 
from  the  high-road  by  ponderous  oak  doors,  and  divided 
from  the  court  by  an  iron  gate.  The  ordinary  guard  had 
no  doubt  been  doubled  ;  the  number  of  sentries  on  duty 
looked  ominous,  and,  as  Zeuill  heard  the  door  barred  and 
the  gate  locked  behind  him,  he  had  reason  to  remind  him- 
self that  his  impartiality  in  Spanish  ]:)olitics  had,  as  yet, 
been  too  sincere  to  merit  the  distrust  of  any  one  party. 
He  was  received  with  every  mark  of  politeness  by  two 
officers  and  conducted  to  the  private  apartments  of  the 
Colonel  then  in  command — a  man  who  stood  high  in 
Prim's  regard  and  who  had,  with  him,  escaped  an 
attempted  assassination.  He  was  young  for  his  military 
rank,  arrogant,  and  burdened  by  an  intolerably  heavy 
sense  of  his  ovvn  importance.  He  was  just  finishing  a 
meal.  Four  private  servants  in  livery  stood  behind  his 
chair.  A  dozen  guards  were  stationed  round  the  room. 
Several  wines  and  a  number  of  elaborate  yet  untouched 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  217 

dishes  on  the  table  before  him  gave  testimony  rather  to 
his  love  of  display  than  his  appetite.  A  band  was  dis- 
coursing gay  tunes  loudly  in  an  ante-chamber.  The  noise 
of  these  brass  instruments,  the  odor  of  the  food,  the  ex- 
treme heat,  the  numerous  flies,  the  ostentation  yet  discom- 
fort of  the  whole  environment  produced  an  impression  on 
Zeuill's  mind  of  a  state  of  thmgs  not  destined  to  endure. 

"This  cannot  last,"  was  his  thought  as  he  took  a  seat 
at  the  table.  In  person,  the  Colonel  was  thin  and  sinewy  : 
in  manner,  nervous  yet  overbearing.  He  received  Zeuill 
with  an  air  of  immense  preoccupation,  and,  as  he  listened 
coldly  to  his  opening  remarks,  he  interrupted  him  from 
time  to  time  by  reprimanding  the  servants,  and  giving 
unintelligible  orders  to  the  men  on  guard. 

"  We  certainly  have  a  prisoner  here,"  he  said,  at  last, 
in  a  harsh  voice,  "  a  Pekin  !  He  has  disturbed  the  peace 
and  he  must  abide  by  the  consequences." 

"  Where  is  General  Prim.?  "  asked  Zeuill. 

"General  Prim  will  no  doubt  see  you  when  he  arrives. 
At  present,  he  is  probably  on  his  way  here.  He  wishes 
to  examine  the  fellow  himself." 

"  The  whole  thing  is  a  love  affair,"  said  Zeuill ;  "a  bit 
of  gallantry." 

"Marie-Joseph  Des  Escas  is  getting  a  little  old  for 
Cupids  of  that  kind,"  replied  the  officer,  dryly. 

"There  was  another  lady  in  the  matter." 

"You  mean  the  French  hJonde  ?  I  have  never  seen 
her.  But  Englishmen  don't  risk  their  lives  for  women. 
You  must  find  a  better  story  than  that  for  Prim.  He 
would  like  to  oblige  you — he  obliges  everybody  just 
now — but  don't  make  the  favor  impossible.  If  this  young 
fool  has  given  all  his  money  to  the  Carlists,  that — with 
the  wounds  he  has  got — may  be  punishment  enough. 
His  blonde  will  find  his  beauty  spoilt  a  little  1 " 

"Then  he  is  badly  wounded ? " 


2i8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  What  did  you  expect?  Our  men  do  not  go  out  to 
capture  singing  birds  for  boudoirs  !  " 

"  I  am  aware  of  that,  yet  I  am  surprised,  nevertheless, 
at  the  severity  of  your  measures," 

"  Why  ?  "  shouted  the  Colonel.  "Severity  is  what  we 
need — we  are  as  a  rule  too  lenient.  It  is  grotesque  to 
shoot  the  insurgents  in  one  district  and  make  treaties 
with  them  in  another,  /am  in  earnest  at  any  rate.  You 
know  the  fable  of  the  two  wolves  who,  meeting  one  dark 
night,  devoured  each  other  and  left  nothing  but  the  two 
tails  ?  If  one  party  does  not  make  a  stronger  move  than 
the  rest — there  will  be  nothing  left  of  Spain  but  two  tails  ! 
The  Spanish  people  choose  to  throw  down  the  dynasty 
which  once  ruled  them  and  constitute  themselves  into  a 
sovereign  people.  They  exercise  a  right  which  no  one 
can  dispute.     They  will  not  have  the  Bourbons  I  " 

"Prim  knows  my  indifference  in  political  matters," 
said  Zeuill.  ..."  He  never  talks  in  this  strain  to  me. 
Besides — would  he  take  so  extreme  a  view  ?  " 

"If  he  is  wise,  he  will  take  it,"  replied  the  Colonel, 
with  a  harsh  laugh.  "The  people  are  sick  of  Monarchs 
and  court  menageries — sick  !  " 

The  servants  and  the  guards  had  not  been  ordered  out 
of  the  room  during,  this  interview.  They  stood  there, 
with  ready  ears  and  stoic  faces,  silent  but  by  no  means 
heedless  spectators  of  the  scene. 

"Prim  will  never  succeed  in  pleasing  every  one,"  con- 
tinued the  Colonel,  "  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  if 
I  were  in  his  place,  I  should  direct  things  differently. 
He  is  too  amiable.  He  shoots  a  man,  then  invites  the 
mother  of  the  corpse  to  dinner  and  tries  to  make  a  friend 
of  her.  'Have  you  another  son,  Madame?'  says  he; 
'if  so  I  will  give  him  a  good  appointment.'  That  is  his 
policy  in  a  nut-shell.  He  has  no  ambition.  This  is  a 
moment  when  such  a  man  must  sav  to  himself — 'There 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  319 

is  just  room  enough  on  the  Throne  for  a  person  of  my 
build.'  Prim  has  the  opportunity  of  a  second  Napoleon. 
What  will  he  make  of  it.''  " 

"  He  may  be  a  leader  of  revolutions,  but  he  is  not  a 
Republican,"  replied  Zeuill  :  "  he  is  at  heart  a  Royalist. 
Nothing  will  persuade  me  to  the  contrary.  He  knows 
that  men  do  not  kneel  gracefully  before  a  Monarch 
hatched  in  a  Committee-room  !  He  will  give  you  a  King 
of  the  blood  yet.  This  is  a  country  of  good  Catholics, 
and  the  Catholics,  as  may  be  seen  anywhere,  are  obedient 
to  their  lawful  Princes." 

"lam  glad  you  say  lawful,"  exclaimed  the  Colonel, 
"  because  many  hogsheads  of  devout  blood  must  be  spilt 
before  that  particular  question  is  decided  !  And  in  the 
mean  time  our  Commander  in  Chief  is  going  to  take  the 
waters  at  Vichy  !  " 

The  door  was  thrown  open.  The  young  officers  who 
had  previously  conducted  Zeuill  to  the  apartment  re- 
entered and  announced  a  name.  The  Colonel  rose  to  his 
feet  and  bowed  with  a  certain  mock  deference  to  a  gen- 
tleman, below  the  middle  height,  of  small  and  slender 
frame,  followed  by  two  aides-de-camp,  who  now  ad- 
vanced into  the  room.  This  new  arrival  was  General 
Prim. 

The  Catalan  hero  was  then  in  the  fifty-fifth  year  of  his 
age.  His  features  were  regular.  The  brow  was  particu- 
larly frank  :  the  high  cheek-bones  and  jaundiced  com- 
plexion gave  his  large  dark  eyes  a  haunting — even  terrible 
— distinctness.  But  the  countenance — though  fine  as  a 
whole — was  not,  at  a  first  glance,  remarkable,  and  its 
expression  of  brilliant  melancholy,  which  was  accentuated 
by  an  habitual  frown,  seemed  to  veil  a  nature  prone 
rather  to  self-questioning  than  self-encouragement.  He 
was  one  of  those  men  of  winning  personality  and  intricate 
motives,    who,  from  time  to  time,  leap  into  the  furious 


220  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

drama  of  historical  crises  to  play  the  part  of  God's  agent 
or  the  devil's  fool — it  is  rarely  given  to  contemporaries  to 
decide  which.  In  bearing  Prim  was  at  once  soldierly 
and  courteous.  Those  who  sought  to  find  in  him  the 
insolence  of  the  newest  idol,  and  the  glamour,  were  disap- 
pointed. His  stern,  uncommunicative  lips  promised  a 
friendship  which  might  indeed  be  loyal,  but  which  would 
be  too  discriminating  to  attach  itself  to  many.  He 
seemed  to  belong  by  riglit  of  mind — if  not  of  birth — to 
the  old  implacable  type  of  Spanish  Grandees.  It  would 
have  been  difficult  to  imagine  a  leader  of  the  people  less 
likely  to  be  swayed  by  tawdry  ideals  of  greatness,  or  so 
little  in  sympathy  with  vulgar  notions  of  democratic 
freedom.  To  look  at  him  was  to  remember  the  words 
he  uttered  on  receiving  a  challenge — after  the  successful 
revolt  against  Isabella  II. — to  tear  off  the  crown  which 
he  still  wore  on  his  kepi — "The  Queen  alone  has  fallen  : 
the  Throne  is  imperishable." 

As  he  came  in,  his  glance  fell  pleasantly  on  both  men, 
but  rather  less  so  on  the  over-savory  remains  of  the 
young  Colonel's  repast.  He  went  at  once  to  the  window 
and  looked  up  at  the  sky.     Then  he  turned  to  Zeuill. 

"What  can  you  tell  me,"  said  he,  abruptly,  "about 
this  English  prisoner.?  " 

"He  is  known  as  Robert  Orange ;  he  is  travelling  with 
the  Earl  of  Wight ;  he  has  excellent  prospects  in  En- 
yfland  and  is  connected  with  the  Hausees." 

"That  explains  his  imbecility,"  exclaimed  the  Colonel. 

"  He  has  chosen  to  fall  in  love  and  perform  heroic 
capers,"  continued  Zeuill. 

"  The  Countess  Des  Escasis  a  dangerous  wild  cat, ''said 
Prim,  "  and  her  little  mice  are  mostly  rats  !  " 

"  Do  Englishmen  as  a  rule  know  much  of  foreign 
affairs?"  said  Zeuill.  "I  doubt  extremely  whether  thib 
good  creature  knows   the  difference  between  Don  Carlos 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  221 

and  the  Duke  of  Genoa.  I  wonder  you  take  him  seri- 
ously. In  the  case  of  the  Countess  Des  Escas — it  is,  I 
grant  you,  a  question  of  war.     But  as  to  that — " 

All  three  men  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

"  It  is  amateur  politics  !  "  said  Prim,  pouring  out  for 
himself  a  small  glass  of  Manzanilla  :  "in  these  days  it 
costs  money  to  effect  a  revolution  1  This  matter  was 
arranged  by  priests,  women  and  children.  They  had 
about  two  hundred  old  flint  muskets,  and  perhaps  ten 
thousaiid  francs.  Des  Escas  sold  all  her  jewels  long 
ago.  j\Iy  wife  bought  them.  As  for  our  prisoner,  the 
English  Frenchman,  I  have  his  passport.  They  found  it 
in  his  pocket — -with  nothing  else.  And  that,  in  my  opinion, 
is  the  way  he  arrived  in  Spain  !  But  to  save  time,  let  us 
see  him  at  once.  It  was  kind  on  his  part  to  endanger 
his  life  in  order  to  convince  us  of  a  public  fact  !  " 

"  What  fact .''  "  asked  the  Colonel,  with  some  tartness. 

Prim  took  a  last  sip  of  the  Manzanilla. 

"  The  fact  of  Don  Carlos's  pedigree,"  said  he. 

"Unfortunately,"  said  the  Colonel,  "it  is  not  a  question 
of  pedigrees.     We  want  privileges  not  pedigrees." 

Prim  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder  : — 

"That  sort  of  talk,"  said  he,  "crawls  far — but  it  never 
mounts  high.     Now  show  us  your  captive." 


233  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Robert  was  lying  in  a  dark  hot  room  guarded  by  a 
couple  of  soldiers  whose  whispered  talk  hissed  through 
his  brief  moments  of  uneasy  sleep.  The  greater  part  of 
the  time  he  kept  awake  wondering  about  the  fate  of  his 
companions  and  seeking  for  some  means  of  communi- 
cation with  Lord  Wight.  His  own  share  in  the  adventure 
had  been  wholly  unpremeditated.  The  notion  of  joining 
the  Carlist  insurrection  had  been  as  far  from  his  thoughts 
as  a  Jacobite  conspiracy.  In  a  letter  written  to  Reckage 
just  before  his  departure  from  England,  he  says  : — 

"  I  am  going  abroad  to  restrain  Wight's  enthusiasm  and 
revive  my  own.  Did  you  ever  get  up  in  the  morning  and  say 
to  yourself — '  Man  are  you  a  prig  ?  '  It's  a  wholesome  dis- 
cipline. You  become  desperate.  You  say — '  If  I  can  kill  some 
one  1  may  escape  this  reproach.  If  I  can  kill  a  number  of 
person^ — my  character  will  be  saved.'  As  it  is  I  have  never 
fought  a  duel  :  I  have  never  compromised  a  woman  ;  I  have 
never  in  my  life  been  either  picturesque  or  dangerous.  What  is 
to  become  of  me  ?  I  don't  steal  because  buccaneering  has 
always  seemed  to  me  a  shabby  sport.  I  don't  abduct  proud 
beauties  because  beauties  nowadays  are  not  proud.  I  am  not 
a  Tenor  because  the  whole  idea  of  grand  opera  and  squawking 
one's  emotions  is,  to  me,  preposterous.  I  am  not  in  the  Army 
because  I  spent  my  boyhood  in  a  garrison  town.  I  am  not  a 
priest  because  I  love  the  world.  I  am  too  poor  to  be  a  Blood 
with  any  sort  of  distinction.  My  health  is  so  good  that  artistic 
genius — any  genius — is  beyond  my  prayers.  In  my  early  youth 
I  wrote  poetry  :  in  my  old  age  I  shall  compose  pamphlets.  Per- 
haps my  friends  will  say  when  I  am  dead  : — 

'  Here  lies  the  body 

of 
Robert  de  Hausee  Orange 
who  would  have  been  a  great  sinner  had  he  dared 

and 
who  succeeded,  in  spite  of  his  cowardice,  in  being  a  dull  one'  " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  223 

A  chain  of  accidents — or  the  dehberate  play  of  destiny 
- — brought  Robert  to  Madrid  at  a  critical  hour.  Event 
had  followed  event  with  an  inconsequence  which  exposed 
men's  little  laws  of  life  to  ridicule.  It  showed  once  more 
the  eternal  contrast  between  the  thing  that  actually  hap- 
pens and  the  spectral  thing  that  ought  to  have  happened 
— a  contrast  hung  up  between  heaven  and  earth  from 
everlasting  to  everlasting  for  all  impious  prophets  of  the 
inevitable  to  mark  and  profit  by.  The  very  word  inevi- 
table belongs  to  heresy,  long  sermons,  and  suicide.  It 
is  silly  and  provoking.  These  and  similar  thoughts — 
trite  enough  no  doubt — passed  through  Robert's  mind 
whenever  the  pain  in  his  shoulder  and  his  wounds  slack- 
ened its  fury.  He  had  never  before  felt  acute  physical 
anguish.  He  had  never  before  taken  part  in  a  struggle 
for  life  and  principle.  He  had  never  seen  deeds  of  blood. 
He  had  moved  in  the  best  society  and  met  the  most  ac- 
complished people  and  talked  of  war  in  six  languages 
with  highly  distinguished  diplomatists.  He  had  travelled 
in  many  lands,  and  read  a  vast  number  of  books,  and 
was,  in  every  respect,  a  young  fellow  of  uncommon 
knowledge.  Men  liked  him  because  he  was  strong,  and 
women  liked  him  because — with  the  true  instinct  of  a 
priestly  mind — he  found  the. devout  sex  dangerous.  But 
with  all  this  he  lacked  that  experience  of  sensations — as 
opposed  to  sentiments — which  makes  all  the  difference  in 
one's  living  of  life.  The  King  Arthur,  the  Launcelot,  the 
Roltuid,  the  Arnadis,  the  Ignatius — all  the  adored  figures 
of  his  boyish  fancy  grew,  some  paler  and  some  more 
splendid — for  his  present  suffering.  He  began  to  dis- 
tinguish clearly  between  the  facts  of  life  and  the  affecta- 
tions of  literature.  He  found  himself  muttering  in  time 
to  the  throbs  of  pain — "  It's  all  bosh — bosh — bosh.     It's 

all  bosh but  I  should  like  to  have  had  another  jab — 

another  jab — another  jab — at  that  filthy  sergeant." 


324  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

The  bit  of  sky  which  he  could  see  through  the  window 
did  not  conjure  up  immortal  longings  nor  send  him 
dreaming  about  the  peaceful  bowers  it  sheltered  in  other 
climes.  He  did  not  tease  his  brain  for  rhymes  to  passion 
and  despair.  His  melancholy  found  its  vent  in  a  rage — 
compounded  of  jealousy,  anger  and  irritation — against 
Brigit,  She  was  headstrong  :  she  was  imprudent  :  her 
conduct  was  indefensible.  Why  should  she  risk  her  life 
for  Don  Carlos  ?  What  a  crazy  plan  to  get  up  into  that 
mill.  And  who  was  Castrillon  .''  Castrillon  was  an  ass — 
a  turkey-chick.  Castrillon  had  a  very  good  time  riding 
off  with  her — a  dashing  person  in  all  his  best  clothes  and 
without  a  burn.  Where  was  the  sense  of  such  conduct  ? 
had  Brigit  lost  her  religion  and  grown  frivolous  ?  It  was 
deplorable.  What  a  fall !  what  a  shame  !  what  a  tragedy  ! 
As  for  himself,  he  had  no  wish  to  live — none.  But  he 
would  live  long  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  have  a  word  or 
two  with  Castrillon.  .  .  .  And  then,  the  poor  little  girl 
in  the  field  ?  .  .  .  What  were  those  hvo  brutes  talkijig 
about  P  .  .  .  Would  710  one  be  good  enotigh  to  punch  their 
heads  P  Wliere  was  the  surgeon  ?  He  ivas  not  a  bad  /el- 
low — that  surgeon.  He  could  jerk  a  shoidder  aiiywhere. 
.  .  .  Hullo !  Here  are  three  swells,  and  one  is  the  little 
beast  I  saw  Just  now  .   .   .  little  beast.  .   .   . 

The  young  Colonel  had  been  with  Robert  for  more  than 
an  hour  that  morning.  As  the  three  men  entered  the 
room.  Orange  felt  at  once  that  Zeuill,  whom  he  had  never 
seen  before,  came  as  an  intermediary,  that  Brigit  and  the 
Countess  Des  Escas  were  safe.  As  this  news  flashed 
upon  him,  his  natural  defiance  and  good-humor  revived. 
He  sprang  out  of  bed,  stood  up,  and  bowed  to  foes  and 
friends  alike  with  a  high  spirit  which  even  the  Colonel 
found  admirable.  Robert  said  in  reply  to  Prim's  first  in- 
quiries, that  his  injuries  were  slight  ;  that  he  was  fully 
able  and  prepared  to  answer  any  questions  relating  to 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  225 

himself  ;  that  he  was  neither  a  spy  nor  a  conspirator  but 
a  prisoner  of  war. 

"There  is  no  war,"  said  Prim,  with  some  grimness  : 
"and  there  are  no  prisoners.  But  the  Government  is 
suppressing  a  few  traitors  and  criminals." 

The  General  had  no  doubt  made  up  his  mind — from 
antecedent  investigations  at  Madrid — that  Orange  was 
not  a  man  of  political  importance  to  the  Carlists.  His 
name  did  not  occur  in  any  of  the  fatal  despatches  found 
on  the  Marquis  of  Pezos  :  he  was  merely  the  travelling 
companion  of  a  "  fat  fanatic,  el  Conde  de  Wight  "-^and 
fat  fanatics  were  rarely  dangerous.  Prim  who,  when  he 
pleased,  could  show  a  rigor  Avhich  did  not  escape 
the  charge  of  cruelty,  decided  that,  in  the  case  before 
him,  a  sermon  would  enforce  a  sounder  lesson  than  a 
bullet. 

"You  seem  to  me,"  said  he,  "a  young  man  whose 
heart  has  got  into  his  head.  This  Government  has  done 
everything  to  save  Don  Carlos  and  he  has  done  every- 
thing to  ruin  himself.  He  is  not  wanted  in  Spain.  If 
Spain  wanted  him,  she  would  have  him.  No  man — no 
human  policy  could  stop  her.  Those  who  seem  most 
devoted  to  Don  Carlos  do  not  like  him,  and  doubt  his 
return.  His  army  is  the  debris  of  the  old  regiments. 
His  loyal  subjects  belong  chiefly  to  that  idle  and  numer- 
ous class  of  vagabonds  who  are  ever  ready  to  create  dis- 
turbances by  which  they  hope  to  profit.  They  live  rather 
to  rob  their  fellow-citizens  than  to  defend  them.  If  Don 
Carlos  puts  any  trust  in  these  he  is  deceived.  I  am  sorry 
for  that  young  man.  He  thinks  that  he  has  but  to  appear 
in  the  field  for  all  Spain  to  welcome  him.  It  is  a  happy 
imagination  to  believe  that  the  whole  nation  longs  for 
his  rule.  If  the  whole  nation  expressed  such  a  wish — I 
should  be  the  instrument  to  effect  its  desire.  But  that 
wish  will  never  be  expressed  by  any  majority  of  the 
15 


2i6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Spaniards — either  in  my  day  or  in  yours,  or  in  his.  Why 
then  do  you — an  alien — take  it  upon  yourself  to  join  in  a 
ridiculous  attempt  to  force  an  unpopular  cause  upon  an 
angry  and  outraged  people?  These  bad  jokes  must  come 
to  an  end.  Men  who  persist  in  playing  them  will  be  shot 
without  trial.  I  regard  the  Countess  Des  Escas  as  a  fond, 
silly  old  woman  who  has  burned  her  villa  in  order  that 
she  may  end  her  days  in  a  madhouse." 

He  then  glanced  at  the  Colonel  who,  in  a  sharp 
tone,  began  a  string  of  questions  on  the  subject  of  the 
plot. 

"lean  tell  you  nothing,"  said  Robert,  "because  I 
know  nothing." 

"  Then  how  did  you  join  the  party.''  " 

"There  are  many  well-known  adherents  to  the  Carl- 
ist  Cause  living  at  present  in  Spain.  One  meets  them 
daily  in  society.  If  their  names  do  not  occur  to  you — it 
is  not  for  me  to  remind  you  of  them.  On  that  point,  I 
decline  to  give  the  least  information.  You  have  caught 
me.     But  I  shall  not  help  you  to  catch  more." 

"  Then  you  are  not  a  Carlist,"  said  the  Colonel,  "for 
their  chief  industry  is  to  betray  each  other  !  That  is  why 
we  know  so  much  about  you." 

"The  more  you  know  of  me  the  better  I  shall  be 
pleased,"  answered  Robert. 

"  How  long  have  you  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Countess  Des  Escas  ?  " 

"I  think,"  said  Prim,  before  Robert  could  reply,  "that 
M.  de  Hausee's  interest  does  not  lie  in  that  direction  1 
But  for  the  present  this  is  enough." 

He  looked  at  the  Colonel  and  he  looked  at  Zeuill.  He 
went  out  and  they  followed  him.  Orange  could  not  de- 
cide whether  their  faces  meant  mischief  or  mercy.  He 
sat  down  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  while  the  two  soldiers 
who  guarded  him  started  singing  a  song  about  a  con- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  227 

script  who  lay  dying  while  his  false  love  danced  gay 
dances  with  a  boy  that  played  guitars.  And  the  refrain 
went  : — 

"  Ho  1  ho  1  ha  !  ha  1     Do  \oa  need  the  sun  to  see  a  woman's  deceit  ? 

Ho  1  ho  1  ha  1  ha  1 " 


2  28  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAlNTa 


CHAPTER  XV. 

To  return  to  Brigit. 

Zeuill  had  not  passed  the  gates  of  his  own  Park  before 
the  Countess  des  Escas  summoned  all  the  members  of 
her  party  to  a  council.  They  found  her  seated  at  a 
writing-table  in  her  bedroom  with  her  head  bound  up  in 
a  silk  scarf  and  her  burnt  hands  swathed  in  bandages. 
The  nun's  dress  had  been  discarded  for  an  old  silk  gown 
which  had  been  lent  her  by  one  of  the  women.  It  was 
too  ample  for  her  spare  figure  and  its  bright  hue  made 
her  face — which  had  grown  twenty  years  older  for  the 
night's  enterprise — a  haggard,  scarcely  human  appari- 
tion. Her  features  had  taken  a  sharpness,  her  lips  a  pal- 
lor, her  eyes  an  unanswerable  despair  that  told  without 
reserve  for  the  first  time  the  deathly  panics  of  a  whole 
life  spent  in  loving  a  sick  hope.  She  seemed  to  repulse 
affection,  forbid  pity  and  exact  fear.  The  men  took  their 
places  round  the  table  in  silence.  The  young  Marquis  of 
Castrillon  worked  his  arched  brows  and  his  white  hands 
— but  he  said  nothing.  Bodava  was  moody  and  ill  at 
ease.  The  others  were  stolid — even  indiffeient.  Brigit, 
whose  expression  showed  mingled  sorrow  and  audacity, 
felt  her  own  courage  rise  as  the  men's  so  perceptibly 
sank.  But  she  trembled  at  the  stillness,  for  she  knew  it 
was  a  bad  sign  for  any  cause  when  a  woman  must  speak 
the  first  word. 

Joanna's  glance  passed  swiftly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"To  whose  crime,"  she  asked  at  last,  "do  we  owe  all 
these  disasters  ?     Why  does  Pezos  wander  about  the  city 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  229 

with  papers  enough  in  his  pocket  to  destroy  us  all  ?  If 
God  has  forsaken  us  and  will  suffer  our  ruin,  I  will  end 
nevertheless  as  I  have  begun.  But  this  looks  to  me  less 
like  the  hand  of  God  than  human  folly. " 

Castrillon,  whose  voice  was  soft  and  melodious,  then 
spoke  up.  The  absent  Pezos  was  his  own  ''good 
cousin. " 

"  Who  could  expect,"  said  he,  "such  a  brutal  attack? 
If  people  will  write  letters,  some  one  must  deliver  them." 

The  four  members  of  the  Royal  Guard  nodded  their 
heads  in  support  of  this  remark. 

Joanna  burst  into  angry  tears. 

''We  have  lost  two  years,"  she  said,  "and  all  the 
powder,  tire-arms,  bayonets,  swords  and  cartridges.  We 
can  never  get  so  many  together  again.  We  have  neither 
the  money  nor  the  means.  And  I  had  planned  it  all  so 
well." 

"As  you  have  said,"  observed  Bodava,  "it  will  take 
two  years  or  more  before  we  can  attempt  another  ris- 
ing." 

"  Does  Dorregaray  say  that?  "  asked  Joanna. 

"  What  else  could  he  say?  "  replied  Bodava  ;  "some  of 
our  strongest  friends  are  in  prison,  some  are  murdered, 
some  are  in  exile.     There  is  no  more  money." 

"  Men  will  do  nothing  now  save  for  bribes  and  wages," 
exclaimed  the  Countess  ;  "  surely  for  soldiers  and  states- 
men who  desire  to  leave  a  name  in  history  there  can  never 
be  a  part  more  noble  than  to  sacrifice  everything  to  the 
national  good — to  God,  the  country  and  the  King  I  I  do 
not  reproach  any  one  present,"  she  added,  quickly,  "you 
have  all  done  well  and  bravely.  But  we  stand  alone 
against  a  generation  of  hagglers  and  heretics.  And  a  Jew 
gives  us  shelter — a  Jew.  I  honor  his  good  heart  and  I 
blush  for  the  false  hearts  of  our  Catholics.  As  for  Prim, 
he  is  like  Saul.     He  spares  Agag  but  he  hurls  the  javelin 


230  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

at  David.  And,  like  Saul,  his  death  shall  be  cruel  and 
bitter.  Aye  !  who  lives  shall  see  it.  Gentlemen,  I  do 
not  thank  you  for  saving  my  life — you  have  but  given  me 
a  day  more  in  which  to  eat  my  heart  and  pray  vain 
prayers.  God  is  angry  with  us  or  these  things  could  not 
be.     The  Cause  is  lost — it  is  doomed." 

The  speech  had  poured  from  her  lips  in  a  torrent.  Her 
voice  had  become  a  wail  and  she  seemed  to  be  looking  at 
forms  that  were  invisible  to  her  hearers.  She  stood  up 
and  lifted  her  maimed  and  bandaged  hands  above  her 
head. 

"What  man  is  there  thatliveth  and  shall  not  see  death  ?  " 
she  cried  ;  "I  am  not  afraid.  Who  says  I  am  afraid  tells 
lies.  I  am  not  afraid.  But  teach  me,  O  God,  to  say, 
Behold  !     I  have  fought  and  I  have  failed." 

Castrillon  sprang  forward  to  catch  her  swaying  figure. 

"She  is  very  old,"  whispered  Bodava  to  a  young  man 
with  a  scared  face  who  sat  next  him  :  "  and  she  has  done 
too  much  !  " 

They  all  went  to  her  assistance.  They  lifted  her  on  to 
her  bed — and  when  they  looked  upon  her  as  she  lay  there 
weak,  helpless  and  in  a  mortal  stupor  their  minds  softened 
and  they  knew  that  a  woman's  soul  was  passing  from  the 
earth.  She  had  always  seemed  an  old,  gaunt,  terrible 
shrew — a  constant  scourge  to  lovers  of  ease  and  pleasure. 
Her  fierce  intellect,  her  impetuous  genius  and  bitter 
tongue  were  odious  to  her  friends.  The  men  she  directed 
and  browbeat  owned  her  power  but  hated  her  restless  and 
reproachful  energy.  They  crept  out  of  the  room — leaving 
her  with  Brigit  and  the  waiting  women  vi^ho  had  been 
called  from  an  ante-chamber.  Each  man  went  away  to 
his  own  apartment  to  sleep  at  last  without  fear  of  dis- 
turbance. That  imperious  summons  would  never  be 
heard  again.  Don  Carlos  had  lost  his  most  vigilant  sub- 
ject. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  231 

Castrillon  was  the  last  to  leave.  He  lingered  on  the 
threshold  for  a  long  glance  at  Brigit.  But  she  was  kneel- 
ing by  the  friend  who  had  never  been  to  her,  or  to  any 
creature  in  sorrow,  other  than  gentle  and  most  indulgent. 

The  women  attendants — after  their  kind — began  to 
weep  loudly.  Two  remained  by  the  bed  suggesting 
remedies  and  ejaculatling  prayers.  The  others  drifted 
about  the  room  bound  on  purposeless  errands. 

"Have  you  the  shoe  of  Madame  the  Countess?"  said 
one. 

"Which  shoe.-*  "  said  the  other,  with  a  sob. 

"Madame  the  Countess  would  not  touch  her  supper," 
said  a  third  ;    "this  is  exhaustion." 

"My  brother's  wife  Christina  died  this  way,"  said  the 
first. 

Another  sob  broke  from  a  fourth  who  had  been  crawl- 
ing under  the  table. 

"I  have  found  one  shoe,"  said  she  ;  "but  Madame  the 
Countess  will  not  need  it  now." 

Madame  the  Countess  continued  to  breathe  for  another 
half-hour.  Her  cheek  seemed  warm  to  Brigit  whose  own 
was  pressed  against  it.  But  suddenly  it  grew  very  cold 
and  the  girl — with  a  new  strange  sensation  of  fear — drew 
back.  The  women  broke  into  a  loud  wail  and  the  oldest 
of  them  pulled  Brigit  from  the  corpse. 

"Come  away  !  "  said  she  ;   " it  is  dead  !  " 


i3^  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  death  of  the  Countess  Des  Escas  though  piteous 
enough  in  its  circumstances  came  at  the  best  moment  for 
herself  and  the  party  involved  in  her  flight  from  Loadilla. 
Had  she  lingered  on  to  suffer  banishment  or  to  languish 
in  prison,  her  wrongs  would  have  supplied  an  unwelcome 
motive  for  action  to  the  many  half-hearted  patriots  who 
were  already  longing  to  make  some  compromise.  Ruined, 
disappointed,  and  broken  in  health,  her  estates  confiscated 
and  her  authority  gone,  she  would  have  remained  an 
angry  voice,  but  no  longer  a  power  in  the  Carlist  move- 
ment. When  the  news  of  her  death  was  told  to  the  Mar- 
quis of  Castrillon,  he  dropped  his  eyes  and  said, — 

"God  is  wise." 

Brigit,  who  had  grown  to  love  her  unhappy  friend  with 
a  deep  affection,  winced  at  the  cynical  tone  underlying 
the  Marquis's  piety,  but  she  felt  the  truth  of  his  words. 

The  day  passed  as  all  such  days  must  pass — in  feverish 
melancholy.  No  fresh  projects  could  be  formed  till  Zeuill 
returned  from  Madrid.  Suspense  held  each  member  of 
the  little  company  aloof  from  the  other.  A  discretion 
which  might  have  been  called  distrust  set  every  man  busy 
with  his  own  meditations  and  forebodings.  When  they 
all  met  at  luncheon,  it  was  with  a  sullen  air.  In  conver- 
sation scarcely  a  sentence  was  finished.  One  would  begin 
to  speak — then  he  would  check  himself.  What  if  Zeuill 
should  betray  them  all  ?  This  was  the  unutterable  fear  in 
every  mind.  Had  they  tried  him  too  far?  Strange  things 
had  been  said  and  done  lately.     The  Countess  had  dropped 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  233 

down  like  a  poisoned  bird.  Groundless  as  these  sus- 
picions were  and  foolish  as  they  seemed  even  to  those  that 
held  them,  they  lent,  nevertheless,  a  peculiar  horror  to 
hours,  already  and  of  necessity,  most  wretched.  Castril- 
lon,  whose  light  heart  could  resist  all  things  save  ennui, 
found  a  guitar  and  played  a  while  till  he  remembered  that 
there  was  death  in  the  palace.  "  How  tiresome,"  he 
thought,  and  he  next  sought  to  amuse  himself  by  torment- 
ing some  of  the  Baron's  pet  dogs.  Brigit  remained  for  a 
long  time  in  her  own  room.  But  the  strain  of  refusing  to 
recognize  the  drift  of  her  emotions  drove  her — toward 
evening — to  seek  company.  She  stole  down  the  stairs 
into  the  great  hall  where  the  men,  taciturn  and  gloomy, 
were  sitting,  some  at  chess,  others  at  cards.  At  her  ap- 
proach, they  stood  up  and  Castrillon  offered  her  his  own 
seat — the  most  luxurious  there.  She  accepted  it  and  drew 
from  her  pocket  some  worsted  and  knitting  needles  which 
she  had  borrowed  from  one  of  the  maids. 

"  Why  do  you  knit  wool  when  you  could  knit  souls  ?  " 
asked  the  young  noble.  "  I  would  do  more  for  one 
glance  from  your  eyes  than  for  all  the  gods,  kings,  and 
countries  ever  preached  !  A  beautiful  woman  may  look 
politics  but  she  should  never  speak  of  them." 

"  She  should  not  meddle  with  them  at  all,"  answered 
Brigit,  "for  political  intrigues  are  worked  neither  by 
words  nor  hearts,  but  by  gold  alone!  Sentiment  counts 
for  nothing." 

"And  you  can  say  this  after  our  ride  last  night? 
Do  you  think  I  risked  my  life  for  the  sake  of  Don  Car- 
los ?  " 

"  No,  I  feel  sure  that  you  did  not  think  of  him  once." 

"  I  was  thinking  solely  of  you." 

"  I  know  it.  That  is  why  I  am  sad.  I  hoped  you 
were  a  patriot  and  I  find  you  are  merely  a  gallant  !  " 

"  Strange  woman  !     And  you  are  as  cold  as  you  are 


234  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

strange.     Have  you   never  loved?     Has  the  moon  had 
nothing  to  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  Too  much,"  said  Brigit,    "  only  too  much  !  " 
"  Is  there  no  one.?     Who  is  this  Robert  de  Hausee  ?  " 
"  My  husband's  friend." 

"  Ojo  !     Is  it  so  serious  as  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Castrillon, 
half  to  himself. 

"  I  fear  he  has  been  killed,"  said  Brigit,  pausing  from 
her  work  and  meeting  Castrillon's  inquisitive  gaze  with  a 
long,  proud  glance.  The  young  Marquis  was  extremely 
handsome,  and,  in  spite  of  his  indolence,  his  foppery  in 
dress  and  his  undisguised  vanity,  the  type  was  not  effemi- 
nate. Brigit  defied  but  she  could  not  despise  him.  He 
may  have  been  a  laggard  in  war.  In  affairs  of  the  heart, 
however,  and  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  he  knew  neither 
fear  nor  fatigue.  To  look  at  him  at  all  was  to  fall  under 
the  spell  of  an  audacious,  passionate  and  crafty  nature. 

"Would  you  smile  like  that  if /had  been  missing?" 
he  asked. 

"  O  no  !  "  said  Brigit,  not  without  irony. 
"  Did  he  come,  too,  for  love  of  you  ?  " 
"  I  hope  not." 

"  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  is  happier  than  I  am.  If  he  is 
dead,  he  has  forgotten  you." 

The  ball  of  worsted  fell  down  from  her  lap  and  rolled 
away  toward  young  Antoniede  Bodava  who,  from  a  short 
distance,  had  been  watching  them  both  as  they  talked. 
Bodava  touched  the  ball  first,  but  Castrillon  sprang  up 
and  snatched  it  from  his  hand.  The  two  men  had  long 
been  seeking  some  cause  for  a  quarrel  and  the  occasion 
now  presented  itself.  A  few  pointed  words  passed  be- 
tween them  and  the  incident  was  full  of  meaning  to  every 
one  of  the  spectators  present  except  Brigit,  who,  on 
receiving  the  ball  from  Castrillon,  tossed  it  back  again  in 
play  to  Bodava.     Of  all  her  friends   in   Spain,  she  liked 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  235 

him  best.  He  had  paid  her  respectful  if  sullen  homage 
ever  since  her  first  arrival  in  Madrid.  He  bore  a  certain 
likeness  to  Robert,  and,  true  to  the  perversity  of  her  sex, 
she  showed  more  kindness  to  the  possessor  of  that  acci- 
dental and  slight  resemblance,  than  she  had  ever  permitted 
herself  to  display  toward  the  original.  Castrillon  now 
thought  that  he  detected  in  her  air  a  secret  passion  fur 
Bodava,  who,  while  his  mferior  in  social  rank,  was  his 
superior  officer. 

' '  Colonel  de  Bodava, "  said  Brigit,  ' '  has  not  opened  his 
mouth  all  day.  He  will  not  speak  to  me.  I  fear  he  is 
tired." 

"  Not  tired — but  patient,"  replied  the  Colonel. 

The  gravity  of  his  air  and  tone  reminded  her  for  some 
reason  of  Joanna's  death,  and  perhaps  many  other  things 
which  she  was  laboring,  with  the  full  strength  of  her 
soul,  to  forget.  A  sob  sprang  into  her  throat.  She  tried 
to  speak  but  her  voice  failed,  and,  in  an  agony  of  grief, 
agitation,  and  hopelessness,  she  rose  hurriedly  from  her 
seat,  forbade  them  by  a  gesture  to  follow  her,  and  walked 
away  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  hall.  Bodava,  however, 
once  stirred  was  not  soon  daunted.  He  hastened  after 
her,  and,  with  a  stern  face,  watched  the  tears  stream  down 
her  cheeks. 

"  I  must  speak,"  he  said.  "I  have  been  silent  because 
I  have  had  so  much  to  occupy  my  thoughts.  Do  you 
realize  the  danger  of  your  position  in  this  house?  The 
Countess  is  dead.  You  are  here  alone  among  six  men — 
all  of  them  devoted  to  you.  That  is  as  it  should  be. 
Most  of  them,  however,  boast  that  they  are  devoted  to 
you.  That  is  as  it  should  not  be.  Your  protector  is  dead. 
Her  presence  might  have  silenced  calumny.  But  the 
world  is  neither  romantic  nor  reasonable.  It  will  see  you 
— young,  attractive,  responsible  to  God  and  yourself  only. 
The  world  will  soon  overlook  God  in  the  argument  and 


236  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

reckon  wholly  on  the  devil.  I  am  a  soldier  and  I  don't 
use  the  language  of  ballads.  But  you  must  leave  this 
place.  A  vi^oman  might  be  as  pure  as  you  are  and  yet  she 
could  not  afford  to  be  seen  with  libertines.  Snow  once 
soiled  makes  the  blackest  mud.  There  is  not  a  man  here 
whose  character  would  marry  happily  with  any  lady's 
reputation." 

Brigit  knew  the  truth  of  this  last  remark.  The  General 
in  authority  over  the  Carlist  party  in  Madrid  had  chosen 
such  men  for  the  adventure  at  Loadilla  as  were  remark- 
able rather  for  daring  than  loyalty.  Had  they  perished 
— their  loss  would  not  have  affected  the  moral  strength  of 
the  Cause.  They  were  neither  rich  nor  powerful  and  the 
confiscation  of  their  estates  would  not  have  meant  a 
serious  hindrance  to  the  proposed  war.  It  was  com- 
monly, and  perhaps  rightly  said  that  Castrillon's  debts 
were  the  chief  motive  of  his  anxiety  to  see  a  revolution. 
Rastro  was  a  firebrand  snatched  from  the  Isabellists. 
The  others  were  cadets  of  good  family  for  whom  it  was 
at  once  a  duty  aiid  a  difficulty  to  find  suitable  commissions. 
Bodava  himself,  however,  had  with  trouble,  obtained  per- 
mission to  lead  the  enterprise.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
proved  energy  and  ability.  His  rapid  promotion  from 
the  position  of  a  simple  volunteer  in  the  Carlist  force  to 
the  rank  of  Colonel  had  been,  even  in  a  service  where 
honors  were  scattered  with  a  prodigal  hand,  an  extra- 
ordinary thing.  At  headquarters  it  was  not  thought  well 
that  such  a  soldier  should  risk  his  life  in  a  Avild  escapade. 
The  Countess  Des  Escas — who  was  a  rich,  self-willed 
woman — had  played  her  all  and  lost.  To  desert  her,  they 
agreed,  would  be  a  crime.  But  her  day  of  usefulness  was 
past.  She  was  to  be  saved — if  possible.  It  was  not 
necessary,  however,  to  waste  heroes  where  adventurers 
would  answer  the  purpose  equally  well.  Yet  Bodava  car- 
ried his  point     He  it  was  to  whom,  with  Robert,  Brigit 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  237 

owed  her  present  safety.  His  words,  though  kindly 
meant,  wounded  her  pride.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had 
presumed  to  question  her  prudence.  She  felt,  too,  the 
cruel  humiliation  to  which  women  must  ever  be  exposed 
when  they  venture  into  the  harsh  and  perilous  region  of 
political  intrigue. 

Bodava,  with  the  instinct  of  a  sincere  affection,  divined 
her  thoughts  although  he  could  not  understand  her  feel- 
ings. 

"  To  meet  men  on  a  common  ground,  "  said  he,  the 
more  roughly  because  he  dared  not  be  tender,  "to meet 
us  in  this  way — or  in  commerce — is  a  bad  matter.  Beauty 
is  nothing  to  us  then.  Youth  is  nothing.  Sorrow  is 
nothing.  Virtue  is  nothing.  It  is  merely  a  struggle  for 
power.  We  do  not  want  women  at  these  moments.  We 
tolerate  them  so  long  only  as  they  may  be  used  for 
tools,  dupes  oj  spies.  I  am  a  man  and  I  know  men. 
For  the  love  of  God,  Madame,  believe  me.  Your  enthu- 
siasm, your  devotion  is  out  of  place  amongst  us.  Too 
often  we  trade  on  your  generosity  and  make  calculations 
on  your  love.  I  would  have  saved  you  from  these  hard 
lessons — " 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Brigit,  who  was  weeping  bitterly, 
"  you  teach  them  well !  I  did  not  come  here  to  help  any 
man.  I  did  not  risk  my  life  for  any  man.  I  had 
neither  plotted  nor  conspired  for  any  man.  That  the 
cause  of  Don  Carlos  is  the  cause  of  the  Church  is  all  I 
know  and  believe.  My  poor  friend  was  a  martyr  and 
God  must  have  found  that  I  was  not  worthy  to  die  with 
her.     So  I  am  here." 

"  It  is  as  I  thought,"  exclaimed  Bodava,  "  it  is  all  sen- 
timentality. Qui  veutlafin  veut  les  moyens  is  a  proverb  for 
men.  Women  think  neither  of  means  nor  the  end.  They  are 
ruled  by  these  two  pretty  ideas — to  die  with  some  one  or 
to  live  for  some  one  !     Hozv  they  live  or  how  they  die 


338  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

does  not  matter  so  much  till  the  time  comes  and  then — 
Bo  hoo  ■' — for  whether  they  live  or  whether  they  die,  it  is 
always  a  crying  affair  !  " 

His  peasant  blood  and  homely  humor  had  rendered  him 
detestable  to  the  aristocratic  ladies  of  the  Carlist  party. 
The  Countess  Des  Escas  had  always  viewed  him  with  re- 
pugnance as  an  upstart.  Brigit,  who  admired  independ- 
ence of  character,  had  formed  a  wiser  estimate  of  his 
worth.  But  her  temper  was  quick.  She  had  been  edu- 
cated in  a  school  where  insolence  under  any  form  and  in 
all  circumstances  was  held  as  an  abomination.  She  mis- 
took Bodava's  burly  kindness  for  familiarity. 

"  You  go  too  far,"  she  said,  "  you  forget  yourself.  I 
wish  that  all  my  own  words  to  you  might  be  recalled. 
You  could  never  understand  me  or  any  of  my  friends.  Our 
motives  and  our  conduct  must  always  remain  a  mystery  to 
you.  And  the  more  they  bewilder  you  the««nore  reason 
shall  we  have  to  take  pride  in  them  ?  " 

Then,  wiping  the  traces  of  tears  from  her  face,  she 
looked  back  over  her  shoulder  at  Castrillon  and  called 
him  with  her  eyes.  He  was  at  least  a  courtier.  He 
never  offered  women  a  gift  so  uncouth  as  the  plain  truth. 
He  came  up  most  readily  and  smiling.  They  began  to 
talk  together  as  though  Bodava  were  a  lacquey  in  waiting 
or  a  fly  on  the  window  pane.  The  conversation  was 
mere  nonsense.  It  was  a  silly  banter  about  knitting  and 
names  for  pet  poodles.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes,  Brigit 
wished  the  company  good-evening  and  withdrew  to  her 
own  rooms,  having  worked,  as  she  soon  feared  when  her 
softer  nature  asserted  itself,  much  trouble  in  a  party 
already  ripe  for  strife  and  distracted  by  small  jealousies. 

She  had  indeed  but  passed  out  of  earshot  when  Cas- 
trillon called  upon  Bodava  for  an  explanation  of  his  con- 
duct. Bodava's  reply  was  a  threat  to  report  him  for  in- 
subordination.    The  Marquis  drew  himself  up. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  339 

"Neither  my  family,  nor  my  rank,  nor  the  honored 
uniform  I  wear, "  said  he,  ' '  permit  me  to  see  a  lady  rudely 
treated.  I  do  not  deny  the  laws,  civil  and  military.  I 
do  not  forget  the  duties  imposed  by  our  holy  religion. 
But  I  can  accept  only  one  reparation  for  this  affront." 

Both  men  were  strong  in  hate  and  hot  in  blood.  Both 
were  eager  to  satisfy,  in  some  fair  en  counter,  a  mutual  spite. 
It  would  have  been  hard  to  decide  which  struck  the 
others  cheek  first.  The  rest  of  the  foolish  drama  followed 
all  too  swiftly.  The  whole  party,  at  Bodava's  command, 
went  down  into  the  superb  gymnasium  which  was  one 
of  the  underground  wonders  of  Zeuill's  palace.  Bodava 
permitted  Castrillon  to  appoint  his  second.  He  himself 
chose  Rastro.  The  consultation  between  them  was  brief. 
It  was  decided  that  there  should  be  a  duel  a  priynera 
sangre,  at  ten  paces  and  with  pistols.  The  preliminaries 
and  preparations  settled,  the  adversaries  were  placed  op- 
posite each  other  at  a  distance  often  yards.  Bodava  fired 
and  Castrillon  answered.  No  harm  was  done.  They  were 
then  stationed  nine  yards  apart.  The  firing  was  repeated. 
Still  there  was  no  hit.  They  were  then  placed  eight  yards 
apart.  This  time,  at  Castrillon's  third  shot,  he  saw  Bodava 
stagger  backwards.  The  bullet  had  just  missed  his  right 
eye  and  lodged  in  the  cheek  bone.  With  blood  streaming 
down  his  face,  he  presented  a  terrible  spectacle.  Castrillon 
grew  so  affected  at  the  sight  that  his  heart  became  like 
water  and  his  remorse  claimed  as  much  attention  as  the 
Colonel's  wound,  which  was  no  light  injury.  Not  one  mem- 
ber of  the  horrified  group  was  capable  of  giving  medical  aid. 
It  was  unsafe,  in  the  circumstances,  to  use  the  private 
telelegraph  wires  between  Zeuill's  palace  and  Madrid. 
What  then  could  be  done  ?  At  last  Rastro  suggested  that, 
with  so  many  valuable  horses  in  the  stable,  there  was  no 
doubt  a  veterinary  surgeon  at  any  rate  attached  to  the 
household.     Castrillon  offered  to  find  him.      He  rushed 


240  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

out  half  in  delirium  and  shedding  tears.  But  he  returned 
shortly  with  the  man  whom  he  had  sought,  and,  praying 
hard,  he  himself  supported  Bodava  while  the  bullet  was 
extracted.  The  farce — as  ridiculous  as  it  was  ghastly — 
thus  came  to  an  end,  so  far  as  the  two  male  actors  were 
concerned.  At  Bodava's  own  request,  the  whole  affair 
was  to  be  represented  to  the  Baron,  for  the  lady's  sake, 
as  an  accident.  The  young  lady  was  alone,  unprotected 
and  in  a  peculiarly  hard  situation.  Each  gentleman 
swore  to  observe  absolute  secrecy  on  a  matter  so  delicate. 
They  forgot,  however,  the  surgeon  to  whom  Castrillon, 
in  his  agitation  of  mind,  had  clearly  stated  that  the  shot 
had  been  fired  in  a  duel.  This  surgeon  was  an  English- 
man— a  man  of  the  valet  and  spying  class.  Castrillon 
made  him  a  handsome  present.  It  was  the  one  thing 
of  value,  in  fact,  which  that  spendthrift  still  possessed — 
a  massive  gold  chain  that  he  wore,  with  a  locket  contain- 
ing an  Ag7ius  Dei,  under  his  shirt. 

"  What  is  your  name? "  said  the  Marquis. 

"  My  name,"  said  the  surgeon,  "  is  William  Caffle. " 

Castrillon  then  presented  him  with  the  chain,  but  he  re- 
tained its  pendant,  for  that  had  been  the  gift  of  a  fair  kins- 
woman who  had  taken  the  vows  in  order  to  pray  the  bet- 
ter for  his  turbulent  soul. 

"I  don't  believe  in  charms  and  superstitions, "observed 
Caffle,  who,  at  one  glance,  had  decided  that  the  little 
trinket  was  of  small  worth:  " my  profession  is  against 
all  that." 

Then  he  bowed  low  and  withdrew. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  241 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

Baron  Zeuill,  meanwhile,  was  anxiously  occupied  at 
Madrid.  As  a  result  of  his  mission,  General  Prim  had  in- 
vited him  to  supper.  But  the  question  of  Robert's  release 
remained  unsettled.  The  supper  hour  was  fixed  for  nine 
o'clock.  Zeuill  had  thus  some  little  time  before  him  for 
the  transaction  of  other  business.  He  called  at  the  Hotel 
where  Lord  Wight  was  known  to  have  rooms,  and  he  ob- 
tained an  interview  with  the  Earl  by  describing  himself  as 
the  bearer  of  news  from  Robert  Orange.  Wight  received 
him  politely  but  with  great  caution.  He  had  been  led  to 
believe,  by  information  received  from  aCarlist  agent,  that 
Robert  had  escaped  with  the  rest  of  the  party.  He  felt 
therefore  that  this  was  an  occasion  for  the  exercise  of 
those  diplomatic  arts,  which,  in  solitude,  he  had  so  long 
and  carefully  studied. 

"I  have  heard  rumors," said  he,  "of  some  distressing 
fracas  at  Loadilla,  and  it  would  seem  that  Orange  is  in- 
volved in  it.  He  is  certainly  missing.  I  have  communi- 
cated with  the  British  Minister,  but  at  present  he  has  no 
official  knowledge  of  the  affair.  I  am  an  invalid  as  you 
see."  (He  was  propped  up  on  several  chairs.)  "I  can 
take  no  active  part  in  the  search  for  my  friend.  My  anx- 
iety, therefore,  is  the  more  trying." 

"I  can  relieve  your  anxiety,"  said  Zeuill:  "Mr. 
Orange  has  declared  himself  a  Carlist  and  he  has  been 
placed  under  arrest." 

Wight  did  not  believe  this  statement    and  his  smile, 

which  was  natural  enough  in  the  circumstances,  seemed 
i6 


242  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

to  Zeuill,  who  mistook  it  for  mere  acting,  a  highly  credit- 
able performance, 

"  The  arrest  is  no  laughing  matter,"  said  he.  "  General 
Prim  has  revived  the  old  martial  law  of  182 1." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Wight. 

"This  :  all  conspirators  against  the  Government  taken 
with  arms  in  hand  shall  be  tried  by  a  council  of  war  on 
the  spot,  and  executed  within  twenty-four  hours.  There 
is  an  accident  in  Orange's  favor.  No  arms  were  found 
upon  him  at  the  time  of  his  arrest.  He  was  caught  half- 
stripped  and  seriously  wounded.  He  is  not  well  enough 
yet  to  give  a  clear  account  of  himself. " 

"There  is  some  mistake,"  said  Wight,  growing  livid, 
"some  monstrous  blunder.  If  it  is  a  question  of  a  fine 
or  a  ransom,  I  will  gladly  pay  it.  Mr.  Orange  is  my  Secre- 
tary— a  young  man  of  the  highest  promise  and  character 
— the  son  of  a  French  nobleman  of  very  ancient  name 
whose  wife  died  at  the  birth  of  this  one  child.  He  was 
adopted  by  friends  and  it  was  a  condition  of  his  adoption 
that  his  own  name  should  be  dropped,  and  he  has 
accordingly  always  borne  that  of  Madame  Bertin's 
family.  The  facts  of  the  case  were  unfortunate  but  not 
illegal." 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  them,"  replied  Zeuill,  much  to 
the  annoyance  of  his  hearer,  who  liked  all  aristocratic 
origins  veiled  in  brilliant  mystery  from  the  vulgar  eye. 
"  I  understand,  too,  that  Orange  has  been  elected  to  rep- 
resent Norbet  Royal  in  your  House  of  Commons.  It  is 
a  great  pity  that  he  has  meddled  with  Spanish  politics. 
Neither  a  fine  nor  a  ransom  will  meet  the  present  emer- 
gency— it  is  a  case  that  will  require  all  my  influence. 
Amateur  enthusiasm  is  dangerous  and  it  must  be  sup- 
pressed with  a  high  hand.  Not  that  I  wish  to  alarm 
you." 

"Sir,"  said  his  lordship,   "  I  am  not  to  be  alarmed.    An 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  243 

Englishman   may  know   indignation,  but  never,  I   trust, 
fear." 

Zeuill  then  spoke  in  a  more  conciliatory  tone. 

"  My  view  of  the  situation,  "said  he,  "is  probably  your 
own.  I  don't  wish  to  be  indiscreet,  but  I  feel  sure  that 
Mr.  Orange — or  to  be  accurate,  M.  de  Hausee — is  more 
interested  in  a  certain  young  Senora  than  in  the  Throne 
of  Spain," 

"I  know  nothing  of  his  private  affairs,"  said  Wight ; 
"your  surmise,  however,  seems  to  me  unlikely." 

"  Have  you  never  heard  him  speak  of  Mrs.  Parflete  ?  " 

"I  think  your  question  improper.  But  I  may  reply 
that  the  lady's  name  is  wholly  unknown  to  me.  I  have 
never  heard  of  such  a  person.  If  you  were  to  say  that 
Orange  had  shown  a  chivalrous  spirit  out  of  devotion  to 
his  Church,  you  might  perhaps  be  nearer  the  mark." 

Zeuill  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  impatience. 

"Let  that  report  get  bruited  aboutand  no  influence  in 
Spain  can  save  him,"  said  he. 

The  Baron,  apart  from  his  friendship  for  the  Countess 
of  Escas,  gave  no  support  to  the  Carlist  cause.  It  was 
closely  allied  with  the  See  of  Rome,  and  the  whole  matter 
stood  before  his  mind  not  as  a  question  of  rightful  succes- 
sion but  as  a  question  of  policy.  The  return  of  the 
Bourbons  meant,  to  him,  the  restoration  of  the  banished 
religious  orders,  fresh  strength  to  the  Ultramontane  diplo- 
matists, and  renewed  power  to  the  Catholic  clergy.  He 
respected  the  sentiments  of  pious,  high-born  ladies,  but 
he  dreaded,  only  a  degree  less  than  anarchy,  the  Papal 
hand  in  political  affairs. 

"Sir,"  said  Lord  Wight,  "is  your  business  with  me  to 
the  advantage  or  the  disadvantage  of  my  Secretary  ? 
Your  tone  leaves  me  in  considerable  doubt  on  that 
score. " 

"I  desire  to  save  a  young  man — with  whose  family  I 


244  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

have  long  been  acquainted — from  foolishness.  Armies 
are  worked,  not  by  sermons,  but  by  pay.  The  Carlist 
Cause  is  poor — it  can  never  succeed. 

"The  Bourbons,  sir,  vt'ill  reign  again  in  Spain.  I  will 
stake  my  life  upon  it,  sir.  And  Mr.  Disraeli — a  gentle- 
man of  pretty  considerable  ability — is  of  my  opinion.  Nor 
will  I  reconsider  an  opinion — which  Christian  faith  and 
Oriental  prescience  alike  support.  Sir,  make  my  compli- 
ments to  General  Prim  and  tell  him  that  persecution  for 
an  honest  sympathy  is  unknown  in  England.  It  could 
not  happen." 

"In  England,"  replied  Zeuill,  "you  have  civilians  at 
the  head  of  the  Government.  They  prefer  to  wear  out 
their  political  opponents  by  interminable  speeches.  A 
great  military  commander  would  employ  briefer — perhaps 
more  heroic — measures  !  But  I  have  no  desire  to  raise 
invidious  comparisons." 

"Sir,  you  have  already  raised  them." 

"My  lord,  this  is  not  the  way  to  help  your  Secretary 
out  of  his  present  difficulties." 

"Sir,  I  could  help  no  Englishman  by  joining  in  un- 
worthy criticism  of  the  British  Government." 

"  M.  de  Hause'e  is  not  an  Englishman." 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  you  labor  under  a  misapprehension. 
Mr.  Orange  became  a  British  subject  some  years  ago. 
My  health  will  not  suffer  me  to  prolong  this  discussion 
further." 

The  interview  thus  came  to  an  abrupt  close,  and  Zeuill, 
having  offered  an  adieu  with  unruffled  good  nature,  went 
on  to  Prim's  residence. 

He  found  the  General  in  an  ill  humor.  His  unbounded 
confidence  in  himself  had  led  him  to  make  light  of  the 
Conspiracy  and  Don  Carlos  "the  Simple,"  but  other  con- 
spiracies had  come  to  light  at  Valladolid,  at  Pontevedra, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  245 

in  Catalonia,  Valencia,  and  Alicante.     Nor  were  the  Car- 
lists  so  poor  as  they  were  commonly  thought  to  be. 

' '  I  hear  from  a  good  source, "  said  Prim,  sullenly,  ' '  that 
Carlos  has,  at  least  fifteen  millions  of  reals  in  Spain,  and 
property  too  in  France  and  in  England.  A  conquered 
party  will  never  be  obedient  for  kindness.  They  must  be 
ruled  by  fear.  And  they  shall  have  it,"  he  added  with  a 
grim  laugh. 

The  two  sat  alone  at  supper,  and  the  servants  did  not 
remain  in  the  room.  Prim  eat  little,  and  his  mien  was 
not  promising. 

' '  This  man  Orange, "  he  said,  suddenly,  ' '  seems  a  mere 
pawn.  He  knows  nothing.  You  may  have  him.  I  will 
give  him  a  safe-conduct  and  he  must  leave  the  country 
within  twenty-four  hours.  But  I  shall  want  an  exchange. 
That  little  hell-kitten  must  have  her  neck  wrung." 

"Who  is  the  hell-kitten  ?  "  asked  Zeuill,  in  his  mildest 
manner. 

"  Madame  Parflete.  She  would  destroy  whole  regi- 
ments. Her  husband,  on  the  other  hand,  is  a  valuable 
man.  His  last  letter  was  a  week  late  and  has  only  just 
reached  me.  A  most  unfortunate  delay  in  every  respect. 
He  knew  much  about  all  this  last  nonsense.  But  the  wife 
is  deep.     She  tells  him  as  little  as  possible." 

"You  will  find  that  she,  too,  is  a  mere  pawn.  The 
Countess  Des  Escas  rules  everything." 

"Thank  God  she  is  dead,"  said  Prim, 

This  startling  news  made  the  Baron  as  livid  as  his  host, 

"  You  didn't  know  that  ?  "  continued  Prim  ;  "I  found 
the  blessed  tidings  waiting  for  me  when  I  returned  from 
the  barracks." 

Zeuill  was  too  discreet  to  ask  the  name  of  the  General's 
informant.  There  were  spies  everywhere,  and,  if  Prim's 
agents  were  in  Zeuill's  household,  Zeuill's  agents  were 
»lso  about  Prim, 


246  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"This,"  said  Zeuill,  whose  voice  showed  genuine  emo- 
tion, "is  a  real  grief  to  me.  I  liked  that  woman.  There 
was  greatness  in  her  character.  The  Carlist  cause  will 
sink  with  her  death." 

"It  will  rise  again  with  mine,"  answered  Prim.  These 
ominous  words  came  from  his  own  lips,  yet,  as  he  heard 
them,  he  half-started  from  his  seat,  and,  glancing  about 
him,  displayed  a  nervousness  wholly  alien  to  his  soldier 
habits.  He  felt  that  dread,  not  of  human  foes,  but  of  the 
supernatural  under  which  the  stoutest  heart  turns  sick. 

"There  is  no  one  here,"  said  Zeuill, 

"  What  was  I  saying  .?  "  asked  the  General,  whose  hands 
had  grown  wet  with  a  sudden  sweat. 

Zeuill  replied  that  he  could  not  remember.  This  was 
the  truth,  but  the  incident  and  the  forgotten  sentence  re- 
turned to  his  mind  with  a  horrid  distinctness  just  one  year 
and  four  months  later  at  that  same  hour  of  the  evening, 
half  past  nine — when  Prim,  murdered  by  six  assassins, 
paid  the  price  of  King-making  and  consummated  his  de- 
votion to  what  he  took  to  be  the  winning  party  in  Spain. 

For  a  few  seconds  neither  of  the  men  spoke.  The  room, 
for  all  its  closed  doors,  did  not  seem  secret.  There  was 
a  body  to  the  air,  which,  now  hot  and  now  icy,  swept 
through  the  sombre  apartment.  Each  filled  the  other's 
glass,  and  both,  with  haunted  souls,  drank  a  deep  draught 
of  wine. 

"What  would  you  do  with  Mrs.  Parflete.?  "  said  Zeuill, 
at  last. 

"If  we  are  not  careful,"  replied  Prim,  "  Castrillon  or 
some  one  of  her  lovers  will  persuade  her  that  she  is  the 
Archduke's  Heir  Presumptive  in  Alberia.  She  could  never 
succeed,  but  she  could  inspire  endless  risings  and  insur- 
rections among  his  Catholic  subjects.  Europe  is  swarm- 
ing with  Pretenders  who  have  claims  far  inferior  to  those 
she  could  put  forward.     They  are  very  clear — so  clear,  in 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  247 

fact,  that  Charles  after  Duboc's  death,  re-married  his  Arcl> 
duchess  privately.  I  have  just  heard  that.  Parflete  never 
throws  all  his  cards  on  the  table  at  once  !  Among  Prot- 
estants, he  says,  in  his  letter,  the  first  affair  with  Duboc 
would  of  course  he  laughed  at,  hut  the  moment  you  call  in 
the  priests,  marriage  becomes  the  devil  and  all  hell.  Par- 
flete himself  seems  to  brood  more  than  a  little  over  his 
vi^ife's  legitimacy  !  " 

"  He  is  a  man  of  whom  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying 
that  I  hold  the  very  worst  opinion  possible.  That  young 
woman's  case  has  been  in  my  mind  all  day.  Pier  ob- 
stinacy and  pride  pass  all  belief.  I  saw  her  at  close  quar- 
ters. Her  beauty  is  astonishing.  She  looks  like  the  pic- 
ture of  an  Empress.  If  she  were  to  stick  her  head  out  of  a 
window,  every  soldier's  heart  would  be  in  his  mouth. 
England  is  the  only  safe  place  for  a  creature  like  that." 

"Will  she  agree  to  the  divorce  from  Parflete  ?"  asked 
the  General;  "he  mentions  the  matter  to  me  in  this  same 
despatch." 

"  There  are  easier  things  than  a  divorce,"  said  Zeuill. 
"If  one  made  it  worth  Parflete's  while,  he  would  step 
aside.  The  marriage  was  a  mere  form.  It  would  be 
sheer  theology  to  call  them  husband  and  wife.  And  what- 
ever it  may  be,  the  state  of  matrimony  is  not  an  abstract 
relationship.  I  feel  sure  that  Parflete  would  show  good 
sense.      The  Church  can  be  counted  out  on  this  occasion." 

He  drummed  with  his  finger  on  his  knee  as  he  spoke. 
Prim  presently  answered  him. 

"  I  will  consider  what  may  be  done,"  said  he,  "but  we 
must  not  give  scandal." 

"Even  at  the  risk  of  giving  scandal,"  replied  Zeuill, 
"  you  should  act  quickly.  We  can  marry  her  to  some 
respectable  Englishman  who  would  plant  her  in  a  park, 
make  her  the  mother  of  twelve  children,  and  add  her  face 
to  the  family  portraits  !     I  have  a  person   in  my  eye  and 


248  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

within  reach  who  might  well  be  employed  in  this  busi- 
ness  ! 

"The  divorce  must  be  disposed  of  before  any  fresh 
marriage  can  be  discussed,"  said  Prim,  tightening  his 
lips,  "  and  in  the  mean  time,  I  will  undertake  to  keep  her 
out  of  mischief." 

"As  to  that,"  said  Zeuill,  showing  equal  firmness  but 
a  milder  air,  "  I  am  under  certain  obligations  to  the  Arch- 
duke Charles.  She  must  remain,  for  the  present  at  all 
events,  my  guest." 

"Then,  my  dear  Baron,  I  regret  to  say  that  your  young 
friend — M.  de  Hausee — must  remain  my  prisoner,  A 
bargain  is  a  bargain." 

Zeuill,  with  perfect  good  humor,  made  a  gesture  of 
acquiescence. 

"So  long  as  M,  de  Hausee  is  not  shot  and  is  decently 
treated,"  said  he,  "I  will  not  complain.  He  is  now, 
however,  a  shorn  Samson  and  no  longer  dangerous. 
You  might  give  him  back  to  Lord  Wight — who  is  a  silly 
old  gentleman  suffering  from  dropsy  and  ideas.  Other- 
wise— here  we  are  at  a  dead-lock.  I  am  less  than  ever 
in  a  situation  to  come  forward.  I  can  do  little  without 
your  co-operation.  But  if  this  Government  is  bent  on 
working  its  own  destruction,  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  avoid 
being  buried  under  its  ruins." 

This  speech,  at  once  a  concession  and  a  menace,  was 
uttered  in  a  silken  tone.  He  understood  Prim's  high 
spirit.  Pressed  too  hard,  the  General  was  not  without 
resources.  No  threat  could  ever  bring  him  to  eat  his  own 
words.  As  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  therefore,  Zeuill 
offered  the  suggestion  that  Orange  should  be  delivered 
up  to  the  Earl  of  Wight.  He  saw  that  Prim  was  listening 
with  a  favorable  ear  and  he  pursued  his  advantage. 

"  Possibly  the  Government  no  longer  depends  on  one  or 
two  hundred  thousand  pounds  more  or  less,"  he  continued, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  249 

"but  it  has  many  things  claiming  its  time  and  its  money. 
Ought  either  to  be  wasted  at  this  particular  moment? 
There  is  no  credit  to  be  lost — there  is  a  great  deal  to  be 
gained — by  giving  this  young  man  his  freedom." 

"  What  is  he  to  you?  "  said  Prim,  abruptly. 

"  He  has  obliged  me," answered  Zeuill,  "by  appearing 
on  the  scene  at  the  right  moment.  And  years  ago,  when 
a  Zeuill  needed  help,  the  Hausees  were  not  backward. 
Perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  the  story  ?  It  happened 
to  my  grandfather  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution  in  France. 
He  was  flying  from  the  mob  and  the  Baronne  de  Hausee 
gave  him  shelter  at  the  risk — many  say  the  cost — of  her 
own  life  for  she  was  arrested  not  long  afterwards  and 
guillotined.  On  being  reproached  by  her  friends  for  har- 
boring my  grandfather,  she  replied  :  "  I  can  never  forget 
that  our  Blessed  Lord  was  a  Jew."  She  had,  you  see, 
her  prejudices  and  her  act,  therefore,  was  the  more  touch- 
ing. It  is  a  tradition  of  our  house  to  support  all  those 
who  have  ever  helped  us.  We  never  desert  old  allies 
and  we  pay  our  just  debts." 

He  was  trying  to  work  on  all  Prim's  passions  at  once. 
He  reached  now,  with  a  single  stroke,  the  General's 
Spanish  instinct  for  romance,  his  no  less  Spanish  worldly 
prudence,  and  the  piety  which,  even  when  inactive,  is 
seldom  wholly  extinct  in  a  true  Spaniard's  heart. 

"  Are  your  obligations  still  greater  to  the  Archduke?" 
said  Prim. 

"That  matter  rests  on  quite  another  basis,"  replied 
Zeuill.      "  It  is  a  question  of  policy." 

"Can  you  explain  it?" 

"Upon  my  word,  I  do  not  see  why  not.  To  begin 
with,  the  Archduke  is  becoming  devout.  That  is  a  bad 
sign  for  all  of  us.  He  is  fierce  against  his  sisters.  He 
would  do  anything,  in  the  name  of  religion,  to  spite  and 
humiliate  them.     He  is  refurbishing  his  young  sentimen- 


250  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

tality  for  the  Bourbons.  Suppose,  for  argument's  sake, 
that  he  should  take  it  into  his  mind  to  own  this  young 
woman  as  his  legitimate  daughter?  There  is  nothing  to 
prevent  it.  And  what  a  bid  for  the  old  Ecclesiastics  who 
detested  his  second  marriage  with  that  Lutheran  !  The 
church  at  one  time  disturbs — at  another  time,  strengthens 
a  government.  So  far  Charles  has  cajoled  the  Liberals 
only,  and  he  is  a  little  sick  of  their  greed.  Dying  men 
are  desperate,  and,  if  we  are  not  careful,  he  vi'ill  throw 
such  a  hot  brick  into  both  baths,  that  the  two  parties  will 
be  set  kicking  and  splashing  at  one  another  for  the  next 
sixty  years  !  Mrs.  Parflete  need  not  be  injured,  but  she 
must  be  placed  beyond  his  reach.  I  think  this  can  be 
done.  The  Archduke  is  now  laboring  to  get  rid  of  Par- 
flete. In  that  quarter,  he  M'ould  be  a  more  promising 
agent  than  either  of  us.  So  there  we  may  let  him  alone 
for  a  little.     After  that—" 

"  But  you  say  she  is  obstinate." 

"So  is  young  de  Hausde. " 

"  What  chance  has  de  Hausde  ?  Castrillon  and  Colonel 
Bodava  have  fought  a  duel  about  her  this  very  day.  You 
have  taken  a  bosom  snake  into  your  care." 

Again,  Zeuill  was  placed  at  a  considerable  disadvan- 
tage. This  was  the  second  piece  of  news  that  Prim  had 
levelled  at  his  elaborate  calculations.  But  this  time,  the 
Baron  did  not  own  his  surprise.  He  maintained  a  smooth 
countenance. 

"  Bodava,"  said  he,  lightly,  "  is  a  peasant.  He  would 
jar  on  her  pride.  And  Castrillon  has  been  honored  by 
the  love  of  too  many  jealous  ladies.  He  would  never 
dare  to  marry.  De  Hausee  has  nothing  to  fear  from 
rivals  of  that  stamp." 

"Shall  we  send  for  him?  "  said  Prim,  dryly.  "I  had 
him  brought  here  for  convenience'  sake." 

He  touched  a  bell  as  he  spoke  and  smiled,  with  a  look 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  25X 

of  almost  boyish  amusement  at  the  success  ol"  a  ruse 
which  he  had  planned  in  order  to  discover  to  what  a  de- 
gree the  Baron  Zeuill  and  Robert  were  acquainted.  Such 
was  the  treachery,  the  uncertainty  of  opinions  on  all  sides, 
that  men  could  not  trust  their  own— far  less  their  friends' 
loyalty. 


-'52  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XVni. 

When  Robert  received  his  summons  to  the  General's 
presence,  he  was  waiting,  under  guard,  in  a  fine  apart- 
ment furnished  with  every  decoration  that  a  taste  for 
splendor  could  suggest  and  a  large  fortune,  supply. 
The  contrast  between  these  new  quarters  and  the  squalid 
cell  of  the  Barracks  seemed  to  justify  his  fullest  hope  of 
regaining  a  speedy  freedom.  But  his  heart  had  grown 
heavy  and  morose.  Thoughts  ofBrigitand  what  he  took 
to  be  her  imprudence  were  working  as  a  fever  in  his 
brain.  Hoiv  is  the  gold  become  dim,  how  is  the  most  fine 
gold  changed  !  he  thought.  The  devotion,  which,  while 
absent  from  her  personal  influence,  he  had  been  able  to 
regard  as  a  delicate  supernatural  friendship,  now,  under 
the  stress  of  danger,  jealous)'',  compassion  and  hot  wrath, 
showed  itself  as  a  desperate  attachment  not  to  be  gainsaid 
or  conquered.  His  arms  had  been  around  her.  He  had 
seen — for  one  instant — a  thrilling  happiness  in  the  glance 
of  recognition  that  she  gave  across  the  flames  of  the 
burning  mill.  Such  a  look — bestowed  when  death  was  a 
nearer  thing  than  any  human  love — could  never  be  for- 
gotten. He  knew  at  that  moment  and  from  henceforth 
that  they  were  bound  by  an  ardent  and  reciprocal  affec- 
tion. Yet  his  gnawing  doubts  would  not  be  stilled. 
Those  who  have  loved,  whether  happily  or  the  reverse, 
will  know  well — without  the  telling — all  that  he  suffered, 
and  those  who  have  never  loved  could  not  believe  the 
extent  and  folly  of  his  misgivings  even  if  they  were  set 
down  in  a  catalogue.     If  he  longed  for  liberty,  it  was  in 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  353 

the  fierce  desire  to  see  Brigit  at  least  once  again  and 
deliver  his  mind  from  the  spell  of  a  reticence  no  longer 
to  be  borne.  From  long  restraint,  his  mood  was  the 
more  violent,  and  he  seemed  possessed  rather  by  a  fury 
than  any  spirit  of  kindness. 

When  he  entered  the  General's  supper-room,  both  men 
were  struck  by  his  altered  appearance.  The  asceticism 
of  his  countenance,  which,  more  than  all  the  evidence  of 
the  secret  police,  had  persuaded  Prim  that  his  captive  was 
no  rogue — still  remained.  But  it  was  an  asceticism 
gained  by  strong  efforts  and  at  a  heavy  cost.  Robert's 
real  nature — turbulent,  rebellious,  full  of  troubles  and 
passions — was  working  plainly  enough  beneath  the  sur- 
face. His  boyish  air  had  gone.  The  anguish  of  mis- 
trusting the  woman  whom  he  loved  had  driven  youth 
forever  from  his  face  and  from  his  character.  A  bitter 
smile  played  about  his  lips.  His  eyes  were  hard  with 
the  ice  of  unshed  tears.  Haggard,  scarred,  unshaven 
and  defiant,  his  shoulder  bandaged  in  splints,  and  his  left 
arm  in  a  sling,  he  did  not  appear  a  likely  suitor  to  please 
the  caprice  and  tame  the  spirit  of  a  haughty,  ambitious, 
self-willed  and  beautiful  girl.  But  his  step  was  resolute, 
and  even  at  such  cruel  disadvantages,  Prim  could  find  no 
fault  with  his  bearing. 

"  He  is  a  man,"  muttered  Zeuill,  ''  and  a  real  seigneur 
— for  he  does  not  attitudinize." 

"M.  de  Hause'e, "  said  the  General,  "  I  think  you  will 
find  that  red  chair  very  easy.  I  shall  not  detain  you 
long.  It  is  my  hope  to  set  you  at  liberty,  under  certain 
conditions — " 

"But  when  ?  "  said  Robert. 

Prim  met  his  eyes  with  a  curious  smile,  and,  after  a 
certain  deliberation,  answered, — 

"  I  feel  that  I  cannot  yet  count  you  among  my  friends. 
You  are,  however,  a  British  subject  and  my  sentiments 


2  54  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

toward  your  country  are  invariable  and  sincere.  I  will 
not  forget  them  unless  you  force  me  so  to  do.  But  you 
are  reserved  and  suspicious.  You  withhold  your  confi- 
dence at  the  very  point  where  we  might  become  close 
allies.  I  am  treating  you  as  I  have  never  before  treated 
any  political  prisoner.  I  believe  you  are  innocent  of  any 
actual  complicity  in  this  puerile  effeminate  affair.  You 
had,  I  think,  different  and  more  manly  motives  for 
action." 

His  tone  had  grown  into  one  of  affectionate  admoni- 
tion. He  spoke  as  a  father  addressing  a  well-loved 
son. 

"  I  offer  you,"  he  continued,  "this  opportunity  of  de- 
claring these  motives.  I  wish  you  well,  but  I  can  go  no 
further.     It  is  for  you  to  advance  now." 

"What  would  you  have  me  say.?"  asked  Robert.  "If 
I  am  innocent  of  this  so-called  conspiracy — on  what 
ground  am  I  detained  here  ?  " 

"You  interfered  with  my  officer  in  the  discharge  of  his 
duty.  You  attempted  to  rescue  two  notoriously  danger- 
ous women  who  were  proved  iniriga^ites  against  the 
Spanish  Government.  It  is  a  serious  charge.  Say  no 
more  about  that,  or  we  may  not  end  so  well  as  we  started, " 
he  added,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  temper.  "This  is  not 
a  moment  for  false  delicacy.  It  is  with  reluctance  that  I 
bring  a  lady's  name  into  our  conversation.  But  it  must 
be.  I  do  not  asked  you  whether  you  are  a  saint  or  a 
chevalier.  The  great  point  is  whether  you  are  a  wise 
man  or  a  fool.  Trust  me  and  I  will  give  you  my  word 
that  j\Irs.  Parflete  shall  not  be  compromised,  but,  on  the 
contrary,  protected  from  the  worst  consequences  of  her 
folly.  I  have  two  or  three  reports  before  me.  One  says 
that  she  is  a  pretty  woman  with  an  indifferent  reputation. 
Another  says  that  she  is  a  prude  in  virtue  but  a  martyr 
to  ambition.     Can  you  tell  me  anything  clearer.''" 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS  255 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  mc  in  the  matter?"  said 
Robert.      "  I  am  here  to  answer  for  myself." 

"We  are  satisfied  of  your  honor,"  said  the  General, 
"we  wish  now  to  be  satisfied  of  Madame  Parflete's.  If 
you  are  neither  her  dupe  nor  her  accomplice  you  may  be 
her  friend.     At  present  she  needs  an  advocate." 

"What  has  she  done?"     asked  Robert. 

"A  great  deal.  She  is  a  young  person  for  whom 
epithets  are  not  spared.  She  fancies  that  there  is  a  piece 
of  royalty  stitched  up  in  her  blood  and  she  seems  bent  on 
giving  trouble.  She  is  now  shut  up  alone  with  six  young 
men  in  a  palace  in  the  country.  Two  officers — the  Mar- 
quis of  Castrillon  and  Colonel  de  Bodava — have  already 
fought  a  duel  about  her.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  army 
discipline  even  among  the  Carlists  and  that  scandal  will 
not  drop." 

Some  seconds  passed  before  Robert  could  reply  and 
then  his  voice — in  spite  of  every  effort — trembled. 

"  I  cannot  accept,"  said  he,  "  such  a  story — or  at  least, 
such  a  version  of  it.  It  is  a  monstrous  calumny  in- 
vented by  her  political  enemies.  Other  enemies  she 
could  not  have.  But  why  should  we  talk  of  her — 
here  ? " 

"  I  regret  the  necessity.  When  a  lady  sets  at  nought 
the  limits  which  are  drawn  round  women  for  their  own 
protection,  when  she  breaks  down  the  barrier  between 
the  sexes  and  unites  with  men  in  a  conspiracy — she  must 
not  whimper  for  that  reverence  which  belongs  only  to 
the  innocent  and  harmless." 

"Mrs.  Parflete  is  a  girl  of  seventeen, "  said  Robert, 
"she  thinks  still  as  a  child.  These  scoundrels  take  ad- 
vantage of  her  position." 

"Inexperienced  as  she  is,"  said  Prim,  dryly,  "she 
must  be  aware  that  a  beautiful  young  woman  can  have 
but  one  male  friend." 


256  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Robert,  "her  ignorance  of  the 
actual  world  is  so  great  that,  while  her  modesty  could 
never  be  at  fault,  she  does  not  know  the  usual  rules  of 
life.  Her  manner  is  as  frank  as  a  boy's.  She  is  quite 
unconscious  of  her  appearance.  Immediately  after  her 
marriage,  she  was  thrown  by  her  husband  into  a  society 
composed  almost  exclusively  of  young,  rich,  idle  men. 
She  lacks  that  knowledge  of  human  wickedness  which 
would  enable  her  to  estimate  them  at  their  proper  value. 
It  would  not  require  any  vulpine  cunning  to  deceive  her. 
As  it  is,  she  trusts  each  one  of  them  as  a  good  comrade, 
and  they  in  turn  seek  only  the  gratification  of  their  van- 
ity. She  is  cleverer — more  carefully  educated  than  most 
of  her  sex — and  to  a  nature  so  pure  and  courageous,  the 
ordinary  manoeuvres  of  the  drawing-room  would  but 
seem  insincere — if  not  worse.  And  so  she  is  mis- 
judged." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  put  in  Zeuill,  speaking  for  the  first 
time,  "that  she  is  endowed  with  an  understanding 
which,  in  every  scene  of  life,  is  calculated  to  distinguish 
her.  But  I  am  also  convinced  that  she  was  formed  to 
defy  all  control.  In  this  instance  she  may  have  been 
edged  on  by  the  late  Countess  des  Escas —  " 

"The/a/e  Countess  ?"  repeated  Robert,  stupefied  at  the 
expression. 

"She  died  from  the  shock  and  fatigues  of  her  adven- 
ture," said  Prim.  "  I  need  not  tell  you  the  whole  story 
over  again.     We  both  know  it !  " 

"Then  Mrs.  Parflete  is  indeed  alone,"  said  Robert, 
with  an  agitation  he  could  not  hide.      "And — where  ?  " 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  know .?  "  asked  Prim. 
"  Have  you  never  heard  of  the  Baron  Zeuill .''  " 

"I  know  him  byname  and  repute,"  replied  Robert. 
"  I  have  never  met  him. " 

"  Do  you  think  she  would  be  safe  under  his  charge?" 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  257 

"I  have  no  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  other  than 
a  man  of  high  character.  He  may  know  her  husband  or 
some  of  her  relatives.  The  justice  of  God  would  not 
leave  her  wholly  unprotected,  and  if  she  has  no  visible 
defenders,  she  will  have  those  that  are  far  stronger." 

"I  see,"  said  Prim,  ironically,  "that  you  are  on  good 
terms  with  heaven  !  " 

"My  joy  of  this  world  has  not  been  so  great  as  to 
reverse  my  reason,"  answered  Robert.  "I  know  that 
there  is  a  God  above  us  and  all  our  follies." 

A  new  suspicion  rushed  into  the  General's  mind. 

"Are  you  a  priest  ?  "  said  he,  with  some  sharpness. 

"Not  yet,"  answered  the  young  man. 

"God  take  me  presently  if  you  are  not  more  than  half 
one  already  !  You  speak  properly  enough  and  like  a 
good  Christian.  You  have  given  yourself  too  much 
trouble  on  a  poor  account.  But  gentlemen,  I  think  you 
should  become  acquainted  with  each  other.  Baron 
Zeuill,  allow  me  to  present  M.  de  Hausee." 

The  Brazilian  seemed  as  delighted  as  his  host  at  Rob- 
ert's astonishment.  He  exhibited  the  pleasantest  smile 
and  shook  the  young  man  warmly  by  the  hand. 

"  We  must  be  good  friends,"  said  he. 

Englishmen  as  a  rule  do  not  appreciate  tricks  of  the 
kind,  and  had  Robert  been  less  Celtic  than  Saxon,  had 
he  been  quick  to  resent  any  departure  from  English  man- 
ners and  customs,  the  experiment  might  have  proved  un- 
fortunate. But  he  met  Zeuill's  advance  with  unfeigned 
courtesy. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  he  asked  at  once,  "that  Mrs. 
Pariiete  is  at  your  house.''  " 

The  banker  boM'^ed. 

"I  am  in  communication  with  her  father,"  said  he. 

"In  that  case,"  replied  Orange,  "she  should  need  no 
better  adviser. " 
17 


258  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"What  are  her  relations  with  Alberia  !  "  said  Prim,  sud- 
denly. 

"You  must  be  aware  that  Parflete  was  Equerry  to  the 
Archduke  Charles,"  was  Robert's  answer. 

"But  has  she  no  ambition  to  cut  a  figure  at  the  Court 
on  her  own  account  ? " 

"When  I  knev/  her,"  said  Robert,  "she  wished  to 
spend  the  rest  of  her  days  in  a  Convent." 

Both  his  hearers  smiled  at  this  remark. 

"Would  a  nun,"  asked  Prim,  "care  for  the  friendship 
of  Castrillon  ?     She  has  deceived  you." 

There  was  a  pause  and  the  General  rose  from  his  seat. 

"You  may  go,"  said  he,  "and  to-morrow  you  will  be 
your  own  prisoner  again — no  longer  mine  !  " 

He  rang  the  silver  bell  at  his  side.  The  two  guards 
re-entered  and  Robert,  under  their  escort,  took  his  dis- 
missal." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Prim,  when  the  door  had  been 
closed,  "  it  is  a  happy  thing  to  meet  with  good  men. 
And  I  know  them  when  I  see  them.  I  would  never  waste 
one  on  a  trashy  woman.  It  is  a  bad  economy  of  force. 
Can  you  find  no  commoner  fellow  for  this  business  ?  " 

Zeuill,  in  the  best  of  humors,  replied  that,  "  with  the 
help  of  soaring  Bacchus  he  might  think  of  a  cheaper  plan." 

"But,"  he  added,  "you  must  not  forget  that  we  want 
a  succes  fou.  De  Hausde  has  one  supreme  advantage 
over  all  his  rivals — he  saved  her  life." 

"  And  in  return  she  will  help  him  to  lose  his  soul !  "  ex- 
claimed the  General. 

"  How  long,  pray,  have  you  taken  an  interest  in  souls .?  " 
asked  Zeuill. 

Prim  forced  a  laugh,  but  his  guest  did  not  venture  to 
pursue  the  inquiry  further.  He  shifted  instead  to  the 
subject  of  Robert's  destination  on  the  morrow. 

"  Will  you  permit  him  to  rejoin  Lord  Wight — or,  in  view 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  259 

of  these  other  circumstances,  may  I  invite  him  to  spend 
a  few  days  first  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  must  consider  that  proposal.  Come  to  me  to-mor- 
row morning  at  ten  o'clock." 

The  interview  then  came  to  an  end. 


26o  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

At  a  late  hour  the  following-  evening,  Robert  received 
his  release.  He  was  escorted  to  Wight's  lodgings  at  the 
Hotel  where  he  was  told  he  might  enjoy  full  liberty — 
under  surveillance.  He  could  not  yet  be  permitted  to 
leave  the  country.  Of  his  reception  by  Lord  Wight,  we 
find  the  following  account  in  a  letter  to  Reckage  : — 

"  As  I  entered  the  room,  I  observed  three  figures  sitting 
on  the  balcony.  The  moonlight  was  unusually  clear  and 
brilliant.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  Earl. 
The  other  two  were  women.  One  had  her  back  turned 
toward  me.  But  I  knew  the  small  waist  and  the  flaxen 
curls.  It  was  Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  She  stood  up  at  the 
sound  of  my  step  and  faced  me.  Her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  She  looked  thoroughly  tired.  I  never  knew  before 
how  much  she  owed  to  her  vivacity  of  expression.  The 
second  woman  retired  into  the  shadow.  At  first,  I 
thought  I  had  made  a  mistake  and  imagined  that  I  saw 
her.  I  could  not  speak.  I  was  absurdly  weak  and  I 
cannot  believe  that  I  was  in  full  possession  of  my 
senses.  Wight's  exclamation  on  seeing  me  was  char- 
acteristic,— 

"  *  Thank  God,  you  are  safe  !  I  take  all  the  blame.  I 
led  you  into  it.  I  shall  never  forgive  myself.  Pensde, 
where's  the  port }  " 

"She  poured  out  some  wine  which  I  was  glad  enough 
to  swallow.  Several  minutes  passed  before  another  word 
was  uttered.     It  was  painful  to  all  of  us  to  be  ourselves 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  261 

and  see  each  other.  There  was  so  great  a  strain,  so 
severe  a  restraint,  so  much  that  would  ever  be  inexplic- 
able, so  much  that  would  ever  rest  untold,  that,  to  be 
natural  was  out  of  the  question  and  to  be  artificial,  a  sheer 
impossibility.  I  told  them,  however,  as  well  as  1  could 
of  Prim's  kindness,  which,  in  the  circumstances,  was  a 
miracle.  The  ladies  showed  needless  alarm  over  my 
bandaged  shoulder,  and  it  was  a  relief  when  they  bade 
us  good-night.  I  was  longing  for  some  explanation  of 
Mrs.  Parflete's  presence.  She  never  gave  it.  I  had  never 
seen  her  so  haughty,  so  impassive.  Moral  courage  is  a 
hidden  thing  that  grows  in  silence  and  in  silence,  too,  is 
broken.  The  soul  may  be  withered,  wounded,  slain,  and 
still  keep  an  outward  skin — strong  enough  to  deceive  at 
least  the  cruel  and  curious.  I  sought  vainly  for  any  trace 
of  Mrs.  Parflete's  real  thoughts.  I  almost  persuaded  my- 
self that  she  was  incapable  of  emotion.  And  so  the  brave 
are  always  ill-used  and  worse-judged  ;  while  weak  women 
— weak  men  for  that  matter — seem  to  get  all  the  compas- 
sion, all  the  help,  all  the  love.  I  was  ashamed  of  my 
own  unfairness  in  condemning  a  reserve  which  I  should 
have  been  the  first  to  praise  and  understand.  When  the 
ladies  had  gone,  each  to  her  own  room,  Wight  wiped  his 
eyes — they  were  streaming — and  half  wrenched  my  one 
sound  arm  out  of  its  socket. 

"  '  I  have  been  like  a  blind  beggar  without  his  dog," 
said  he.  '  I  telegraphed  for  Pensee  the  moment  I  missed 
you.  She  started  at  once  and  arrived  but  a  few  hours  ago. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  handsomeness  of  her  conduct  to- 
ward me.  I  can  trust  her  tact.  I  wished,  as  the  French 
say,  to  know  sur  quel  pied  daiiser.  I  hate  all  these 
foreigners.  This  is  a  ruined  and  undone  country.  Every- 
thing denotes  the  impropriety  of  remaining  here  a  day 
longer.  My  poor  boy,  when  I  think  of  all  you  must  have 
suffered  from  these  liars  and  knaves  !  ' 


262  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  Here  he  dropped  his  voice  and  peered  cautiously  about 
the  room — for  we  had  left  the  balcony. 

"'I  was  too  happy  to  make  Mrs.  Parflete's  acquaint- 
ance/ said  he,  '  but,  if  I  may  ask  the  question,  who  is 
she .''  She  is  here  with  that  Jew — Baron  Zeuill.  The  fel- 
low called  on  me.  His  saucy  pretensions  knew  no  limit. 
I  should  take  it  deeply  to  heart  if  you  were  offended  at  any 
remark  of  mine.  I  am  walking-  in  the  dark,  and  may, 
when  I  mean  to  do  good,  be  doing  the  greatest  harm. 
The  lady  appears  a  very  distinguished  and  highly-bred 
person.  No  doubt  she  is.  God  forbid  that  she  should  be 
otherwise.  God  bless  you.  But  it  was  just  a  little 
awkward  for  my  niece.' 

"He  then  went  on  to  s^y,  that,  about  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  before  my  arrival,  Mrs.  Parflete  appeared  on  the 
balcony  adjoining  his  own. 

"'I  was  talking  with  Pens^e,' he  went  on,  'and  we 
were  both  much  startled  when  this  elegant-looking  woman 
— of  whom  we  knew  nothing — addressed  us.  She  men- 
tioned your  name  at  once  and  asked  at  what  hour  we  ex 
pected  you.  She  then  gave  me  her  card.  I  did  not 
know  how  to  reply.  I  was  never  more  uncomfortable. 
Presently  Zeuill  came  out  — as  if  to  show  himself.  I  was 
barely  civil  to  him  and  I  am  glad  to  say  that  he 
went  in.  But  Mrs.  Parflete  sat  on  her  side  of  the  balcony 
while  we  kept  on  ours.  You  will  own  that  it  was  an  ex- 
traordinary proceeding.  My  niece  exchanged  a  w'ord  or 
two  with  her.  We  did  not,  however,  engage  in  conver- 
sation.    I  don't  see  how  we  could  have  done  so.' 

"'When  you  hear  Mrs.  Parflete's  explanation,'  I  re- 
plied 'you  will  find  that  it  was  the  best  course  she  could 
have  adopted  in  the  circumstances ! ' 

"  '  But  is  she  really  a  friend  of  yours  ? '  he  asked. 

"  'She  is  a  lady,'  I  replied,  '  for  whom  I  have  the  most 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  263 

profound  respect.     She  would  probably  regard  me  as  an 
Equerry-in-waiting. ' 

"  He  seemed  struck  by  the  expression,  which  I  used 
purposely,  knowing  my  man.  I  then  undertook  to  ex- 
plain everything  fully  to  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  on  the  morrow. 
As  I  said  this,  we  were  disturbed  by  a  tap  on  the  window- 
pane.  I  looked  out  and  saw  Mrs.  Parflete.  She  was  on 
the  balcony  and  beckoning  with  her  hand.  She  wore  the 
same  glacial  air  that  she  had  shown  on  my  arrival,  but 
this  time  I  thought  I  detected  something  like  desperation 
in  her  eyes.  It  was  no  moment  to  stand  on  strict  et- 
iquette. The  straits  to  which  she  was  driven  were,  I  own, 
compromising  to  the  last  degree.  I  would  have  given 
ten  lives  sooner  than  have  let  her  appear  at  that  particular 
moment  in  that  particular  way.  I  hastened  to  her.  She 
asked  me  if  she  might  come  into  our  sitting-room.  I 
helped  her  over  the  little  barrier.  Wight,  offered  her  his 
own  chair,  and  then,  with  a  delicacy  which  did  infinite 
credit  to  his  instinct,  he  withdrew  to  a  corner  out  of 
earshot,  but  did  not  leave  us  alone. 

"Our  interview  was  so  painful  that  I  can  scarcely  de- 
scribe it. 

"  'Some  day  before  I  die,'  said  she,  '  I  shall  hope  to 
write  down  a  little  of  my  gratitude,  but  I  have  not  the 
courage  now  to  say  a  word.  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse 
this  intrusion  on  your  friends.      It  could  not  be  avoided.' 

"  Her  beautiful  voice,  which  was  usually  both  soft  and 
clear,  began  to  tremble.  Her  eyelashes  were  wet  with 
recent  tears.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  and  the  aston- 
ishing whiteness  of  her  hands,  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks,  the 
brightness  of  her  hair  made  up  a  picture  that  I  could  not 
— even  if  I  would — forget.  She  seemed  too  slight  a  thing 
to  stand  against  the  powers  of  this  world.  I  could  but  think 
of  a  little  image  of  some  saint  set  in  the  sands  of  Brittany 
to  beat  back  the  sea.     As  a  child,  I  had  built  altars  around 


264  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

many  such,  and  they  are  all  under  the  waves  now.  She 
read  my  fear  and  said,  with  a  pathos  that  would  have 
touched  the  hardest, — 

"  '  Have  no  grief  for  me.  God  does  not  abandon  those 
who  trust  in  Him  and  do  their  own  part  in  helping  His 
good  Providence.' 

"  '  Did  Zeuill  bring  you  here  .''  '  I  asked. 
"  'Yes,'  she  answered,  'at  my  own  entreaty.  I  wish  to 
join  my  husband.  Do  you  know  where  he  is  !  He  tells 
me  lies  now.  They  all  tell  me  lies.  I  can  trust  no  one 
but  you.  Take  me  to  my  husband.  I  must  at  least 
seem  to  have  a  protector.  I  have  had  to  suffer  much 
humiliation.' 

"  'Those  of  us  who  would  most  wish  to  resent  your 
wrongs  would  do  you  most  harm  by  coming  forward,'  I 
said,  '  O,  try  to  understand  ! '  . 

"She  flushed  scarlet  but,  seeing  that  my  embarrass- 
ment was  even  greater  than  her  own,  she  leaned  forward, 
and,  with  a  gesture  of  exquisite  kindness,  touched  my 
arm. 

"  '  I  do  understand,'  she  answered.  '  And  I  wish  that 
I  had  some  women-friends.  But  they  are  all  still  at 
school.  I  was  the  first  to  marry.  Some  of  them,  I  re- 
member, thought  me  fortunate  to  get  my  holidays  before 
the  time  !  Leonie  d'Arglade,  and  Camille  de  Graville 
and  Caroline  d'Etampes  are  still  learning  their  lessons.  I 
am  learning  lessons,  too.  But  of  another  kind.  When  I 
next  meet  those  children,  I  shall  not  know  what  to  say  to 
them.' 

"  'Surely  they  are  of  your  own  age.' 

"  'Oh  yes — in  years.  But  we  could  never  again  be 
girls  together  and  laugh  at  nothing.' 

"  I  saw  that  the  sudden  remembrance  of  happy  and 
untroubled  days  distressed  her  almost  beyond  endurance. 
I  returned  to  our  main  subject — which   was   at   least   a 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  2^5 

familiar  grief  and  one  for  which  she  ever  held  herself  pre- 
pared. 

"*I  cannot  tell  you  where  Parflete  is,' said  I,  'and, 
in  the  meanwhile,  could  you  not  go  to  the  Convent  at 
Tours  ? ' 

"  Her  whole  face  altered.  She  seemed  like  a  creature 
reprieved  from  some  atrocious  death. 

"'I  was  praying  that  you  would  say  that  !' she  ex- 
claimed. 'You  would  never  believe  how  I  have  longed 
and  longed  just  for  the  sight  of  the  Convent.  When  I 
was  there  I  wanted  to  see  the  world  and  God  showed  it 
to  me.  O  take  me  away  from  these  people.  They  are 
stronger  than  I  am  and  they  frighten  me.  I  feel  my 
weakness.  While  I  am  with  them,  I  try  to  look  bold  and 
clever.  But  my  heart  always  trembles  and  I  know  that, 
in  the  end,  no  matter  how  well  I  fight,  I  must  lose  the 
day.  They  are  not  wicked  from  frailty,  but  by  design, 
by  principle,  by  maxims.  I  am  like  a  small  bird  on  a 
battle  field.  I  am  like  a  mouse  among  vultures.  There 
is  no  chance — no  hope.  I  must  not  only  die — but  I 
must  be  beaten  first.  And  it  will  not  be  the  death  of 
a  martyr.  It  will  be  the  death  of  one  who  was  not  strong 
enough  to  live  alone.' 

"  The  idea  flashed  into  my  mind  that  Lady  Fitz  Rewes 
might  be  induced  to  help  this  unhappy,  friendless,  and 
inexperienced  girl.  It  is  a  common  belief  with  men  that 
women  but  add,  when  they  can,  to  each  other's  sufferings, 
and  1  have  been  forced,  by  observation,  to  endorse  this 
cynical  estimate  of  female  charity — in  the  rough.  There 
is,  however,  another  sort  of  charity  which  is  part  of  the 
chivalrous  spirit — and  that,  I  have  always  thought,  was 
stronger  in  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  than  the  little  natural  cruel- 
ties which  belong  not  to  any  one  sex  more  than  another, 
but  to  human  nature  as  a  whole.  I  decided  to  make  my 
first  essay  in  the  matter  with  Mrs  Parflete  herself. 


2(56  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"'Did  you  happen  to  notice  Lord  Wight's  niece  ?' I 
asked. 

"  *  A  pretty  creature  but  rather  cold.' 

"  'Ah,  that  is  her  EngHsh  manner.' 

"  '  No  doubt.  If  you  lilce  her,  I  am  sure  she  must  be 
delightful' 

"  '  She  is  older  than  you  are,  and  I  believe  you  would 
find  her  a  kind,  true  friend.' 

' '  '  One  cannot  force  friendships.  .  .  .  And  do  not  re- 
mind her  that  she  is  older  than  I  am.' 

"This  did  not  sound  promising." 

' '  '  Why  !  '  said  I,  '  do  two  women  about  to  meet  always 
assume  that  they  will  repulse  each  other.? ' 

"  '  It  is  an  old  grudge  against  Eve.  Every  woman — 
until  we  know  her — represents  Eve.' 

"  'There  was  a  second  Eve.' 

"  'Ah,  our  Blessed  Lady  !    But  she  had  no  daughters.' 

"  It  was  pleasant  to  see  even  a  momentary  return  of 
her  true  courage  and  gayety.  Despondency  sat  sick  and 
awkwardly  upon  her.  She  had  been  born  for  laughter 
and  fair  gardens,  summer  days,  bright  nights,  and  scenes 
of  joy.  She  was  a  Princess  for  my  Kingdom  under  the 
sea.  This  world,  I  know,  is  the  place  of  our  exile  and 
not  our  country — not  a  continuing  city.  But  how  hard 
it  is  to  remember  this.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  fear  that  I  do 
wrong  to  think  of  her  at  all.  There  is  no  harm,  however, 
in  dreaming.  One  may  always  dream.  ...  As  I 
watched  her  beautiful  face,  I  must  have  lost  mj'-self  in 
wondering — for  she  accused  me  of  inattention. 

"  'You  do  not  hear  what  I  am  saying,'  she  said,  'or 
else  you  will  not  hear.  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  does  not  care 
for  me.  She  thinks  I  am  a  foreigner.  When  I  spoke  to 
Lord  Wight  and  mentioned  my  name,  she  stared  very 
hard  at  my  wedding-ring,  as  though  I  had  stolen  a  hus- 
band from  some  nice  English  woman  ! ' 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  267 

"I  could  well  imagine  the  glance.  All  aliens  married 
to  Englishmen  must  submit  to  it.  But  it  means  no 
malice. 

"  'I  feel  certain,'  I  insisted,  'that  you  will  understand 
each  other.  There  are  many  nations  and  many  ways  of 
being  foolish  with  strangers,  but  when  it  comes  to  a  ques- 
tion of  heart,  a  lady  is  a  lady  in  every  language.' 

"  'She  has  beautiful  eyes,'  said  Mrs.Parflete. 

"  '  And  surely  something  more.' 

"' She  was  gentle  with  her  uncle.  .  .  .  I  thought  her 
smile  very  pretty.  ...  I  liked  her  voice.  .  .  .  Her 
step  was  light.   ...     Do  you  like  her  ? ' 

"  'She  has  been  the  kindest  of  friends,'  I  replied. 

"  'Then,  of  course,  she  is  charmnig.  She  must  be 
charming.' 

"  '  Her  husband  died  when  she  was  little  more  than  a 
girl.     She  married  at  your  age.' 

"  '  Poor  child  !     Had  she,  too,  lost  her  mother  ? ' 

"The  unconscious  pathos  of  this  question — spoken 
without  bitterness  and  in  perfect  simplicity — was  as  much 
as  I  could  bear. 

' '  '  She  has  had  many  sorrows,'  I  said,  '  few  people  know 
how  many.' 

"  '  Did  she  love  her  husband  ? ' 

"  '  I  believe  so — and  very  dearly.' 

"'If  marriage  is  not  for  Heaven,' she  exclaimed,  'I 
wonder  why  all  its  laws  are  made  there  !  On  earth,  when 
two  people  are  happy,  one  is  soon  taken  and  the  mourner 
is  told  not  to  weep — for  they  shall  surely  meet  again  here- 
after. But  when  two  people  are  wretched  and  their  union 
is  a  bondage,  they  are  taught  to  endure  each  other  patiently 
in  this  world — which  is  brief — because  they  shall  be  sepa- 
rated in  the  next — which  is  eternal ! ' 

"  In  every  woman,  raillery  is  either  a  cutting  business 
directed  towards  the  secret  thoughts  of  other  people,  or 


268  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

else — that  act  of  supreme  treachery — the  betrayal  of  her 
own.  The  least  trustworthy  may  be  believed  when  she 
indulges  in  this  dangerous  exercise  of  the  wits — for,  while 
men  are  known  by  their  friends,  women  are  known  by 
their  jests.  For  the  first  time,  therefore,  I  realized  the 
great  change  that  had  taken  place  in  Mrs.  Parflete's  char- 
acter during  her  stay  in  Madrid.  She  had  gained  in  fas- 
cination, in  knowledge,  perhaps — if  that  were  possible  — 
in  beauty,  but  she  had  lost  the  peculiar  reserve  which  I 
admired  even  more  than  her  appearance — that,  after  all, 
is  on  the  surface  and  for  all  eyes.  She  used  to  talk  with 
a  certain  difficulty,  but  now,  probably  from  the  example 
of  the  Countess  Des  Escas  and  constant  mixing  with 
society,  she  has  an  assurance  and  ease  most  winning,  I 
admit,  and  yet —  You  know  that  T  have  never  liked 
women  of  fashion.  To  say  that  Mrs.  Parflete  is  anything 
so  hard  would  be  unjust.  She  is  my  ideal  of  all  that  is 
gentle.  But  when  a  girl  is  naturally  tall  and  imperious, 
when  her  features  are  of  a  proud  cast  and  her  expression 
rather  mocking  than  otherwise,  she  is  better  for  a  little 
weakness  in  will  and  speech. 

"  '  You  think,'  she  said,  suddenly,  "  that  it  would  be 
well  for  me  to  lose  no  time  on  my  way  to  the  Convent  ? 
I  feel  here,  in  my  heart,  all  the  reproaches  you  will  not 
speak  aloud.  You  wish  me  to  show  a  blind  submission 
to  whatever  others  may  call  the  Most  Holy  Will  of  God. 
Surel)''  there  is  much  done  in  the  world  that  is  against 
God's  Will.  He  permits  the  devil's  mischief,  but  we  know 
that  it  is  odious  in  His  sight.  I  cannot  therefore  sing 
songs  of  thanksgiving  for  the  plagues  of  Hell.  I  pray  for 
the  strength  to  endure  them.  I  cannot  call  suffering-  a 
joy,  and  corruption  Heaven's  good  blessing.  That  would 
be  the  language  of  hypocrisy — not  resignation.  O,  what 
a  kind  of  life  is  this  !  If  Our  Blessed  Lord  had  not  gone 
before  us  and  taught  us  the  way  of  it,  who  would  have 
cared  to  follow  ?  ' 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  269 

"Then,  with  a  strong  effort,  she  changed  her  tone. 

"  'Zeuill  is  in  there,'  she  said,  pointing  toward  the 
next  room,  which  was  also  a  private  saIo?i  such  as  the  one 
we  were  then  occupying.  '  He  knows  that  I  am  talking 
to  you.  But  he  does  not  know  that  I  wish  to  go  to 
Tours. ' 

"'The  one  person  who  can  help  us.'  I  replied,  'is 
Lady  Fitz  Rewes. ' 

"'Till  to-morrow  then,'  said  she.  'At  nine  o'clock 
— here. ' 

"  She  touched  my  hand  and  bowed  to  Lord  Wight  who 
was  still  in  his  corner.  Before  he  could  come  forward,  she 
had  passed  through  the  window  and  disappeared,  leaving 
me  in  the  deepest  vexation  and  perplexity.  The  Earl 
seemed  to  understand  that  he  could  best  prove  his  trust 
in  me  by  wishing  me,  without  more  words,  good-night. 
He  told  me  the  number  of  my  room.  We  took  up  our 
candles  in  silence,  lit  them,  and  went  each  our  own 
way.  I  write  all  this  down  while  it  is  fresh  in  my  memory. 
It  contains  everything  that  passed  during  the  interview 
between  myself  and  Mrs.  Parfiete.  I  send  it  to  you  be- 
cause I  have  confidence  in  your  discretion,  and,  should 
anything  ever  happen  to  me,  you  would  know  how  to  de- 
fend— in  the  event  of  misrepresentations — an  innocent 
woman.  I  am  very  tired.  I  hope  to  sleep.  Your  ever 
affectionate. 

"Robert  De  H.  Orange," 

While  Robert  was  writing  to  his  friend,  the  Baron  Zeuill 
was  in  close  conversation  with  the  Archduke's  assent  in 
Madrid,  a  person  who  exercised  ostensibly  the  trade  of  a 
dealer  in  silks.  He  was  thought  to  be  of  Polish  origin. 
His  name  was  Mudara.  His  character  was  honest  :  he 
lived  humbly,  troubling  no  man  and  exciting  no  woman's 
curiosity.     He  kept  to  his  own  circle  and  was  held  in 


270  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

esteem  by  all  his  customers — among  whom  was  included 
during  her  lifetime,  the  Countess  Des  Escas.  Zeuill  and 
this  respected  individual  sat  in  the  room  from  which  Brigit 
had  stepped  on  to  Wight's  balcony.  The  windows  were 
now  closed,  the  shutters  fastened,  the  curtains  drawn. 
From  a  curious  statement,  written  some  years  ago  by 
Mudara  himself,  we  are  enabled  to  form  some  idea  of  the 
conversation  that  took  place.  The  Baron  lost  no  time  in 
coming  to  the  point.  He  said  that  he  saw  no  reason  why 
Parflete  should  not  be  regarded  as  dead — to  society.  He 
could  change  his  name  and  disappear.  He  might  charge 
any  fair  price  for  the  inconvenience.  Mudara,  in  reply, 
saw  difficulties  in  the  path.  Parflete,  he  declared,  soon 
grew  tired  of  any  game.  He  might  agree  to  some  scheme, 
accept  wages  for  carrying  it  into  execution,  and,  when 
the  money  was  spent,  work  for  higher  pay — or  merely  for 
variety's  sake — in  a  wholly  opposite  direction.  One  could 
place  no  reliance  in  him.  He  was  not  even  consistently 
mercenary.  Bribes  did  not  always  tempt  him.  He  had 
more  moods  and  caprices  than  a  woman. 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  "  said  Zeuill  :  "  let  me  once 
hear  that  he  is  dead — and  I  will  ask  no  more.  He  may 
have  a  dozen  resurrections  afterwards." 

But,  so  Mudara  insisted,  the  Archduke  Charles  was 
equally  uncertain.  He  was  now  sending  his  thoughts  to- 
ward the  next  world.  He  had  lately  shown  great  civili- 
ties to  the  Cardinal.  It  would  be  a  dangerous  business 
to  suggest — 

"Suggest.''"  interrupted  Zeuill,  "who  would  suggest 
in  such  a  matter.?  The  thing  is  to  act.  If  you  and  I 
cannot  manage  this  alone,  the  Archduke  had  better  en- 
trust his  affairs  elsewhere.  One  need  not  run  to  him  with 
every  trifling  detail.  In  the  distance,  one  cannot  judge 
correctly  of  reasons  for  or  against  a  plan." 

The  conference  went  on  until  the  dawn — Mudara  always 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  271 

showing  himself  cautious,  Zeuill  always  showing  himself 
sanguine.  Letters  were  drafted  and  destroyed.  Calcula- 
tions were  made,  amended,  abandoned  and  again  con- 
sidered. At  last,  however,  the  two  men  came  to  an  agree- 
ment. Parflete  was  to  be  "approached."  Mrs.  Parflete 
in  the  meanwhile  was  to  be  sent  to  England.  The  Arch- 
duke was  to  be  informed  that,  in  all  respects,  his  own 
interests  and  his  daughter's  happiness  were  about  to  take 
a  more  promising  aspect. 


^7?  THE  SCHOOL  FOK  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Early  next  morning,  before  the  horizon  had  whitened 
with  the  daylight,  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  was  watching  at 
her  window,  wondering  why  the  birds  were  so  still  (they 
were  twittering  from  every  roof),  and  why  there  was  no 
breeze  (it  was  blowing  freshly)  to  cool  the  fever  in  her 
cheeks.  Neither  imagination  nor  sentimental  philosophy 
had  a  part  in  her  unhappiness  which,  as  a  child's  grief, 
had  a  clear  cause  and  one  which  she  had  no  wish  or  will 
to  disguise  from  herself.  She  loved  and  she  was  jealous. 
She  had  a  rival  whose  charm  was  far  greater  than  her 
own  and  who  was  also,  by  more  than  a  few  years,  her 
junior.  Pensde  could  not  reflect  deeply  on  the  subject 
nor  distract  her  heart  by  studying,  after  the  manner  of 
moralizing  ladies,  the  actual  quality  of  her  own  anguish. 
She  could  but  suffer,  tremble,  weep  and  endure — forget- 
ting her  looks,  unmindful  of  revenge,  uncomplaining 
against  God,  very  miserable,  yet,  in  her  soul,  as  gentle 
toward  the  world  as  some  wounded  pigeon  fallen  into  a 
thicket.  She  said  her  prayers  and  read — with  her  eyes  at 
least — the  Lessons.  She  looked  at  the  photographs  of 
her  children  and  the  miniature  of  the  late  Viscount. 
Shedding  tears  over  the  latter,  she  recalled  his  excellent 
virtues  and  many  acts  of  kindness.  He  was  such  a  good 
man  and  he  felt  so  much  for  everybody  and  he  was 
always  nice  to  women.  He  suffered  when  he  saw  others 
do  wrong  ;  his  view  of  Christianity  was  one  of  the  finest, 
warmest  and  most  beautiful  she  had  e\er,  ever  known. 
His  was  a  singularly  delicate-minded,  pure,  true,  unselfish 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  273 

nature,  so  full  of  consideration  for  his  family  and  friends, 
so  generous.  O,  to  be  worthier  of  such  a  husband  ! 
When  he  lay  dying,  she  had  knelt  by  his  side  and  prayed 
the  Lord's  Prayer  for  him.  And  afterwards  he  asked  for 
a  Hymn  and  she  and  the  two  children  tried  to  sing  one 
verse  of  "Abide  with  me."  It  was  so  touching— so 
agonizing.  His  whole  life  had  been  consecrated  to  duty 
— cheerfully  and  quietly  carried  out.  But  now  he  was 
at  rest,  free  from  pain  and  from  every  evil  to  come,  and 
she  could  feel,  for  his  sake,  resigned.  There  were  days, 
however,  which  were  harder  than  others,  when  solitude 
was  almost  too  much  to  bear.  His  loss  was  quite,  quite 
irreparable.  God  was  very  merciful  in  letting  time 
temper  the  sharpness  of  one's  grief,  but  to  her  grave  and 
perhaps  beyond  the  tomb  she  would  carry  this  one 
sorrow.  Her  tears  gushed  forth  afresh  and  she  sobbed 
aloud,  for,  her  children  were  not  old  enough  to  be  the 
companions  of  her  loneliness  and  the  friend  she  would 
have  chosen  to  guide  and  protect  her  was  interested,  dis- 
astrously, elsewhere.  She  hoped  the  woman  was  a  nice 
woman — she  was,  in  any  event,  un-English. 

She  was  suddenly  roused  from  this  piteous  state  by 
hearing  a  loud  tap  and  seeing  a  note  slipped  under  her 
door.  Was  it  for  her?  It  was  some  mistake.  What 
could  it  mean  ?  How  extraordinary  !  Should  she  pay 
the  smallest  attention  ?  But  how  impertinent !  It  was 
such  an  odd  thing  to  do — at  an  Hotel,  too,  abroad  where 
one  had  to  be  so  particularly  careful.  And  yet —  She 
stooped  down.  The  envelope  bore  her  own  name  in 
Robert's  handwriting,  and  the  letter  within  contained 
these  words  : — 

"May  I  see  you  soon  P    I  have  a  great  favor  to  entreat, 
I  will  wait  in  Lord  Wight's  sitting-room  dowristairs. 

2i.  or 
18 


274  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

She  read  it  once  and  tossed  her  head.  She  read  it  a 
second  time  and  ran^  for  her  maid.  An  hour  and  a  half 
later — followed  by  this  servant — she  descended  the  stairs. 
It  was  barely  six  o'clock.  Not  a  creature  was  stirring 
and  she  could  not  hear  her  own  steps  for  the  blood 
beating  in  her  temples.  When  she  reached  the  threshold 
of  her  uncle's  salon,  she  felt  unable  to  proceed,  or  to  as- 
sume the  habitual  self-command  which,  in  public,  never 
deserted  her.  She  turned  away,  and  on  the  pretext  of 
looking  for  a  dropped  brooch,  retraced  her  steps.  As  she 
re-entered  her  bedroom,  she  looked  toward  the  ward- 
robe. 

"This  brown  dress  is  a  little  heavy,"  said  she.  "I 
will  wear  my  blue  Indian  silk  with  the  fringe." 

The  gown  was  changed,  more  touches  were  bestowed 
on  her  hair,  and  this  time  she  did  not  falter  on  the  way 
but  walked  into  Robert's  presence  with  all  her  usual  grace, 
and  even  more  than  her  accustomed  calm. 

He  was  alone  in  the  room,  and,  although  he  had  been 
trying,  for  some  time,  to  read,  he  was  now  pacing  the 
floor.  He  had  been  waiting  there  two  hours.  Each  was 
startled  at  the  other's  appearance.  Robert  paused  to 
look  at  Pensee  before  he  could  utter  a  word.  Her  dull 
pallor  and  hollow  eyes  told  of  many  a  sleepless  night, 
and  many  hours  of  weeping.  Her  charming  figure  had 
wasted  into  something  less  than  slenderness.  She  found 
him — by  the  morning  sun — ill,  plain  and  haggard — the 
spectre  of  himself.  The  man  v^as  dismayed,  chilled,  to 
see  so  serious  an  alteration  in  a  face  and  form  he  had 
once  thought  all  but  irresistibly  pretty.  The  woman 
loved  her  poor  friend  only  the  better  for  his  disfigure- 
ments, and  grew  tearful  at  the  thought  of  the  suffering, 
bodily  and  mental,  which  could  have  produced  such  a 
shocking  change. 

"This  is  so  generous,"  he  said  at  last.      "I  don't  know 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  275 

how  to  thank  you  ?  I  want  your  help  in  a  great  emer- 
gency.    You  are  my  one  hope.'' 

"  I  often  feel  the  want  of  going  about  and  doing  the 
little  good  that  is  in  my  power.  If  I  can  render  any  real 
service  to  you — I  ought  to  thank  you  for  giving  me  an 
opportunity  of  being  useful." 

She  knew  now  that  she  loved  him  ;  loved  him  with  all 
the  strength  of  her  heart.  And  in  meeting  him  again  was 
she  not  preparing  for  herself  much  wretchedness  ?  Was 
it  not  too  clear  that,  let  the  matter  go  how  it  would,  her 
love  could  never  be  returned.  As  a  friend,  no  doubt,  he 
had  it  in  him  to  be  all  that  was  kind,  all  that  w^as  affection- 
ate. Did  he  not  show  kindness  and  affection  to  her 
tiresome  old  uncle.?  She  bit  her  lips  to  keep  herself  from 
sobbing.  He  was  so  much  more  interesting  than  any 
other  man  of  her  acquaintance.  Her  favorite  poem  was 
"Lady  Geraldine's  Courtship,"  and  in  comparing  Robert 
to  Ber/ram,  the  poet,  in  that  story,  she  felt  that  praise 
could  soar  no  higher.  It  was  not  the  fault  of  her  nature 
— but  the  vulgarity  of  her  times,  which  made  her  think 
certain  lines  in  the  Courtship  peculiarly  applicable  to  her^ 
self,  such  lines,  for  instance,  as  : — 

"  There's  a  lady — an  earPs  daughter  ;  she  is  proud  and  she  is  nolde. 

And  she  treads  the  crimson  carpet,  and  she  breathes  the  perfumed  air  ', 
And  a  kingly  blood  sends  glances  up  her  princely  eye  to  trouble, 
And  the  shadow  of  a  monarch's  crown  is  softened  in  her  hair." 

The  idea  of  putting  aside  her  "  ermined  pride"  and 
listening  to  words  of  wooing  from  a  genius — self-edu- 
cated, but  very  rich  in  virtues — one  for  whom  she  could 
sacrifice  her  Norman  prejudices  without  blushing — fell 
pleasantly  on  her  really  modest  soul.  Orange,  it  was 
true,  came  of  no  mean  blood  and  the  joy  of  "stooping" 
could  not  enter  into  the  question.  But  very  few  people 
knew  anything  about  his  antecedents,  and,  so  far  as  Lon- 


276  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

don  and  county  opinion  \veiit,  he  was  certainly  an  obscure 
person  quite  of  the  Bertram  school.  So  Pense'e  had 
argued  ;  she  had  brought  her  arguments  to  a  decision 
and  she  was  prepared  to  face  every  consequence  of  that 
resolve.  One  thing  only  was  wanting.  The  man  was 
indifferent  to  her.  Unhappily,  he  had  met  another 
woman  first.  That  was  the  cruel  accident.  His  cold- 
ness sprang  from  loyalty.  How  splendid  !  how  nol)le  ! 
how  very  fine  !  " 

"I  am  going  to  beg  your  sympathy  for  some  one  who 
is  in  great  trouble,"  began  Robert,  "  it  is  a  woman." 

"Yes,"  replied  Pensee,  looking  grave. 

"You  saw  her  last  night,"  he  continued.  "  She  may 
not  have  appeared  to  advantage — for  she  was  in  a  false 
position  and  she  is  proud." 

"Things  often  seem  odd  when  one  does  not  know 
exactly  how  everything  stands." 

"That  is  what  I  hope  to  explain.  You  shall  know  as 
much  of  the  story  as  I  do  and  judge  for  yourself" 

"  But  don't  you  know  all  the  story }  "  she  asked. 

He  flushed — for  the  question  cut  more  deeply  than  she 
could  have  imagined.  She  had  meant  it  as  a  mere 
scratch — without  bloodshed.  But  it  made  a  wound,  a 
bad  one, 

"I  believe  I  know  it  all,"  he  said,  looking  well  into 
her  soft  blue  eyes — eyes  far  more  tender  in  expression 
than  Brigit's.  Then  he  told,  as  simply  as  possible,  the 
tale  of  Mrs.  Parflete's  birth  and  misfortunes.  Pensee 
listened  with  a  breathless  interest.  A  passion  for  adven- 
ture slumbers  in  the  breast  of  every  true  English  woman. 
The  escape  from  Loadilla  and  the  midnight  flight  on 
horseback  across  country  appealed  to  her  where  the  woes 
of  an  unhappy  marriage  left  her  unmoved.  She  could 
form  no  conception  of  a  bad  husband — or  even  of  a  thor- 
oughly bad  man.      Her  own  life  had  been    spent    with 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  277 

Christian  gentlemen — gentlemen  who  often  did  those 
things  which  they  ought  not  to  have  done  and  who  left 
undone  the  things  which  they  ought  to  have  done — but 
who  were,  on  the  whole,  honest,  chivalrous  fellows,  whom 
women  with  an  ounce  of  sense  could  love,  honor  and 
obey  quite  easily. 

"Of  course,"  said  Pensee,  "it  is  a  great  pity  that  she 
can't  get  on  with  her  husband.  Couldn't  they  be  brought 
together  in  some  way?  You  see,  he  is  really  the  proper 
person  to  look  after  her  and  protect  her  and  all  that.  I 
think  I  can  understand  what  you  must  feel,  but,  in  such 
a  case,  the  comfort  of  trust  in  God,  Who  does  all  well  and 
for  the  best,  is  the  only  support.  A  divorce  would  be  too 
fearful  a  thing  to  contemplate,  and  as  you  say,  she 
wouldn't  think  of  such  a  step.  But  surely  her  people  must 
have  known  a  little  about  Mr.  Parflete.  Surely,  they 
made  proper  inquiries." 

"  Her  people  !  "  exclaimed  Robert,  in  a  tone  of  reproach  ; 
"have  I  not  told  you  that  her  mother  died  ten  years  ago 
— that  her  father,  the  Archduke  Charles,  showed  no  inter- 
est in  her  existence  beyond  giving  her  a  large  dot  and 
paying  her  Convent  bill }  This  is  not  a  common  case, 
nor  are  we  speaking  of  an  English  family." 

"It  is  very  sad  and  most  interesting.  Mrs.  Parflete 
talks  English  without  the  least  accent  and  seemed  a  sort 
of  person  to  like.  It  is  hard  to  realize  that  she  is  a 
foreigner  and  an  Archduchess  and  all  that.  I  am  sorry 
for  her.  I  wish  I  could  see  my  way  to  helping  her.  One 
does  not  like  to  be  mixed  up  in  a  scandal.  I  have  to  think 
of  my  children.  I  am  sure  that  she  must  be  quite,  quite 
delightful,  but,  if  you  don't  mind — and  please  don't  think 
me  stiff,  I  am  afraid  I  would  so  much  rather  not  meet  her 
again." 

She  sat  with  her  white  hands  tightly  clasped  and  her 
head  bowed  in  an  attitude  of  supplication. 


278  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can,"  she  replied  in  answer  to 
Robert's  silence.  "Lionel  would  not  have  liked  it." 
(Lionel  was  the  late  Fitz  Rewes.)  "  He  was  very  English 
in  all  his  ideas.  He  did  not  care  for  foreigners — not  even 
for  foreign  Royalties." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Robert,  "  I  suppose  he  would  not 
have  refused  aid  to  an  innocent  woman  in  great  sorrow 
— no  matter  what  her  nationality.  I  have  asked  you  to 
befriend  a  girl — your  equal  certainly  in  social  rank — 
though  less  fortunate— by  many  degrees — than  the  poorest 
creature  on  your  estates." 

"But  you  said  that  her  real  birth  was  kept  a  secret. 
If  one  could  call  her  quite  openly  an  Archduchess,  it 
would  be  a  different  thing — though  still  difficult  enough 
in  all  conscience.  Do  me  the  justice  to  assume  that  I  am 
anxious  to  do  my  best  in  this — as  in  every  other  case. 
But  I  am  a  widow,  and,  for  a  widow,  young.  Could  I 
be  regarded  as  a  chaperon  } " 

"You  could  at  least  be  regarded  as  a  lady  (?f  the 
whitest  reputation  willing  to  comfort  and  shield  another 
lady — also  of  high  character — but  most  ill-circumstanced." 

"It  is  so  very  awkward.  What  does  Uncle  think.? 
Why  not  refer  the  matter  to  Uncle  .?  I  don't  seem  equal 
to  the  responsibility  of  acting  without  advice.  One  can- 
not be  too  careful.  I  know  that  if  one  always  lives  in  the 
exclusive  circle  of  English  society,  one's  good  impulses 
dry  up — one  gets  rather  unfeeling.  And  I  am  sure  that 
your  poor  friend  is  all — and  even  more — than  you  say. 
I  am  so  sorry  for  the  poor  thing.  It  is  really  enough  to 
make  anyone  cry  just  to  hear  of  all  that  she  has  gone 
through.  I  want  to  be  nice  and  civil  and  obliging — I 
really  do.  Why  does  not  God  in  His  mercy  take  that 
dreadful  man  away }  That  would  make  it  all  so  much 
easier.  And  people — people  whom  you  and  I  know,  for 
instance — hate  mysteries  and  muddles.     They  take  such 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  279 

a  time  to  explain.  You  know  what  I  mean.  Bourbons 
in  exile  are  all  right.  Every  one  feels  for  the  Bourbons. 
But  Mrs.  Parflete's  mother  was  not  of  Royal  blood.  She 
cannot  be  a  real  Archduchess — can  she.''  It  is  one  of 
those  unpleasant  morganatic  complications  that  come  so 
hard  on  everybody.  And  I  can't  at  all  see  what  it  is  that 
you  want  me  to  do  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Parflete  wishes  to  go  to  the  Convent  at  Tours. 
She  cannot  travel  alone  and  she  must  not  travel  with 
Baron  Zeuill." 

"I  would  gladly  lend  her  my  maid.  I  can  manage  to 
do  my  own  hair.      I  shan't  mind  in  the  least." 

"That  is  kind,"  said  Robert,  "but  not  kind  enousrh.  I 
want  you  to  accompany  her  yourself." 

"Me!  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  What  would 
people  think  }  " 

"  People  would  admire  your  goodness  and  bravery." 

"I  don't  think  that  women  are  called  upon  to  be  brave 
— except  in  a  very  quiet  way — in  bearing  pain  or  unkind- 
ness. '' 

"But  I  implore  you  not  to  refuse  your  help.  It  may 
be  a  matter  of  life  or  death  to  that  poor  child.  Can't  you 
forget  people  and  think  a  little  about  humanity  .''  " 

"  It  is  against  my  better  judgment — but  to  oblige  you, 
I  will  invite  her  to  visit  me  in  England  :  "  and  two  shining 
tears  escaped  from  her  eyes  and  rolled  down  her  cheeks 
— till  she  brushed  them  away  with  the  back  of  her  hand. 

"You  are  an  angel,"  exclaimed  Robert  :  "  the  brightest 
of  them  1  " 

"She  won't  care  for  English  country  life — it  will  seem 
very  dull  after  all  this  excitement.  There's  the  Bishop's 
Garden-Party  and  the  County  Ball  and  the  Flower  Show 
and  one  or  two  other  things,  but  the  weeks  betw^een  are 
endless.  If  she  consents  to  come  with  me— I  tell  you 
frankly,  I  will  make  it  my  duty  to  try  and  bring  about  a 


28o'  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

reconciliation  with  her  husband.  This  informal  separa- 
tion won't  do.  She  must  have  some  respect — some 
affection  left  for  that  horrid  man  !  " 

"  She  probably  has  that  pity  for  him  which  every  high- 
spirited  woinan  feels  for  an  inferior  male  being.  I  could 
not  promise  more." 

"Still,"  continued  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  "that  is  a  basis 
to  work  on.  Girls  are  wilful  and  French  girls  are  badly 
brought  up.  Forgive  me — but  I  don't  think  you  are  a 
good  judge  of  character.  Hercy  Berenville  once  told  me, 
that,  when  you  and  he  were  travelling  together  you  used 
to  walk  about  listening  to  the  birds,  studying  the  colors 
of  the  flowers,  gazing  at  the  clouds,  the  stars,  the  moon, 
the  mountains  !  '  (9r^7?^^,' said  he,  '  would  stare  up  at  the 
Cathedral  spires — I  watched  the  women  passing  in  through 
the  Cathedral  doors.'     So  leave  Mrs. Parf^ete  to  me — " 

"Most  gladly,"  said  Robert,  astonished  at  her  sudden 
animation. 

He  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  during  which  he 
kissed  her  hand.  He  tried  to  read  her  face — which  now 
wore  a  lovely  flush — the  fleeting  hue  of  a  last  hope.  She 
looked  away,  far  beyond  him,  straight  out  of  the  window 
and  up  at  the  sky  ;  striving  to  appear  as  though  she  was 
the  mistress  of  the  occasion.  But  her  heart  was  trembling. 
What  if  all  were  not  yet  wholly  lost !  The  pining  grief  of 
a  disappointed  woman  gave  place  to  the  spirit  of  rivalry, 
the  love  of  a  game — requiring  skill — but  perfectly  fair.  She 
could  not  believe  that  she  would  like  Mrs.  Parflete ;  she 
would  receive  her,  however,  en  tout  bien,  tout  honneur, 
advise  her  well,  treat  her  with  all  conceivable  generosity. 
But  women  could  love  twice — had  not  she  herself  loved 
Lionel?  Did  she  not  now  love  some  one  else.?  And 
men  could  love  twice,  too.  Orange,  no  doubt,  was  much 
interested  in  this  surprising  young  person.  She  had  come 
in  his  way  and  he,  being  human,  had  grown  fond  of  her. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  281 

What  could  be  more  natural  ?  Was  he  made  of  bronze  ? 
A  smile  came  across  her  lips — which  were  red  again  with 
joy — as  she  sat  looking  at  the  heavens,  thinking  of  this. 
Then  her  thoughts  ran  back  to  months  gone  by  and  settled 
themselves  on  certain  Midsummer  days,  in  which  she  had 
dreamed  that  Robert's  heart  was  her  very  own— not 
another's  :  that  he  loved  her,  Pense'e,  and  no  one  else. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  abruptly,  "was  Mrs  Parflete  the 
cause  of  that  strange  vow  vou  made?  I  think  I  have  a 
right  to  ask  the  question.  When  I  have  your  answer,  I 
may  be  a  better  friend  to  both  of  you." 

"I  am  nothing  to  Mrs.  Parflete,"  he  replied,  "nothing. 
But  she  is  all  this  world — and  all  the  next — to  me." 

"Then  you  must  be  very  unhappy — very  unhappy 
indeed.     You  ought  not  to  see  her." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  I  enjoy  seeing  her?  Is  there 
any  pleasure  to  be  found  in  such  a  friendship  ?  I  would 
prefer  the  rack." 

"Then  why  are  you  here— in  Spain?  Why  have  you 
risked  your  life  and  forgotten  every  other  friend — every 
other  duty — every  consideration  in  order  to  be  near  her  ? " 

"She  was  in  peril.  I  could  not  have  done  less  for  a 
stranger  in  such  a  terrible  extremity.  When  Lord  Wight 
came  here,  he  presented  me  at  once  to  his  Carlist  ac- 
quaintances. On  the  very  day  following  our  arrival,  we 
heard  that  the  Countess  Des  Escas  and  I\Irs. Parflete  were 
under  suspicion.  I  flew  to  the  head  of  affairs.  With  the 
utmost  difficulty,  I  prevailed  upon  him  to  accept  my 
services.  He  had  refused  many  English  volunteers.  I 
made  the  best  use  I  could  of  my  second  name.  This 
helped  matters.  The  Hausees  have  always  been  iden- 
tified with  the  Legitimist  Cause.  I  was  then  told  that 
the  Countess  had  been  warned  of  her  danger — that  she 
would  set  fire  to  her  Villa  and,  if  necessary,  take  her 
own   life.      The  plot  had  been   arranged  with   a  cold- 


282  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

blooded  desperation  which  one  would  think  unimagi- 
nable in  these  days.  Each  one  in  the  terrible  game 
had  his  or  her  part  to  play  and  at  all  costs.  Such 
enthusiasm  for  an  impersonal  cause  does  not  belong  to 
the  egoism  of  our  century.  I  confess,  that,  as  I  listened 
— I  felt  no  surprise — the  whole  thing  seemed  to  my  inex- 
perience, a  wild  but  unreal  horror.  Yet  I  insisted  that 
some  effort,  at  least,  should  be  made  to  save  the  two 
women  from  their  fate.  I  spoke  as  one  does  in  a  night- 
mare. I  could  not  hear  my  own  voice.  I  don't  know 
what  I  said  or  how  I  said  it.  My  soul  was  paralyzed. 
But  a  rescue  party  was  summoned.  Courage  was  not 
lacking  among  any  one  of  them.  We  got  horses  and 
God  favored  us.  We  managed  to  reach  Loadilla  in  safety. 
The  Villa  was  already  level  with  the  ground.  Then, 
in  the  distance,  we  saw  something  like  a  beacon- 
light.  I  took  it  for  a  sign  and  rode  toward  it,  followed 
by  the  others.  Five  minutes  more  and  we  must  have 
arrived  too  late.  But  I  found  her  .  .  .  Never  ask  me  to 
tell  you  this  again.  '  There  are  two  zvoes  :  to  speak,  and 
to  behold  ; — thou  spare  me  one. 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  said,  "  How  painful  !  Of  course,  we 
won't  speak  of  it.  Poor  Mrs.  Parflete  shall  come  with  me 
to  Catesby  Hall  ...  It  is  quiet  there,  and,  among  the 
trees  and  the  flowers  and  the  dear  children,  I  will  talk  to 
her.  If  she  has  a  strict  sense  of  duty  and  of  what  is  right 
and  wrong,  she  will  soon  make  up  her  mind  to  act  as  a 
high-minded  woman  should." 

She  tightened  her  lips  and  spoke  with  an  irritation  which 
she  could  not  conquer. 

"Some  things  ought  not  to  be  said  :  a  few  cannot  be 
said  at  all,"  replied  Robert ;  "in  this  case,  the  impossible 
word  is  the  one  which  would  seem  to  imply  the  smallest 
doubt  of  Mrs.  Parflete's  loyalty  to  her  husband.  She  never 
left  him  :  he  abandoned  her  and  received  a  large  sum  of 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  283 

money  for  his  act.  She  has  offered  again  and  again  to 
follow  him  into  exile.  But  he  puts  her  off  with  lies.  He 
is  a  spy  and  a  villain  and  a  traitor — the  very  scum  of  the 
earth. " 

' '  How  you  hate  him  !  " 

"I  do — from  the  depths  of  my  soul  and  with  all  my 
strength  and  all  my  heart.  Don't  speak  of  him.  He  is 
unspeakable." 

"  He' must  be  bad,  or  you  would  not  feel  so  strongly. 
But  if  his  wife  felt  so,  it  would  be  shocking.  I  am  glad 
to  hear  that  she  doesn't.  Could  he  not  be  w^on  and  re- 
claimed by  love  ? " 

"Would  you  yourself  love  such  a  scoundrel  .-*  " 

"I  am  not  called  upon  to  love  him.  He  is  not  my 
husband." 

"  Love  has  no  place  in  the  question.  Loyalty  and  for- 
bearance and  forgiveness  she  gives,  and  gives  nobly." 

"  I  shall  know  all  this  better  after  I  have  seen  her,"  said 
Lady  Fitz  Rewes  :  "  but  I  admit  that  it  is  a  sad  case — a 
very  sad  case." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  You  are  good  and 
gentle  and  you  know  what  it  means  when  love  has  gone 
out  of  one's  existence.  People  who  have  lived  self-in- 
dulgent lives  and  loved  many  times  in  many  ways,  think 
it  no  sacrifice  to  renounce  all  human  affection.  To  them 
it  is  a  mawkish,  disappointing  thing.  They  leave  it 
gladly — perhaps,  because  love,  long  ago,  left  them.  But 
to  strong  pure  hearts — hearts  neither  jaded,  nor  embittered, 
nor  made  cheap  by  constant  exchanges — love  always 
seems  the  most  precious  of  life's  gifts — the  one  gift,  too, 
which  we  may  have  on  earth  and  in  Heaven,  also.  Those 
who  belittle  it,  have  first  befouled  it.  You  can  always 
be  sure  of  that." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Pensee. 


284  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"Think  then  of  the  loneliness — the  isolation  of  mind  to 
which  she  is  condemned." 

"I  have  thought  of  that  and  I  want  to  be  kind  to  her." 
"May  I  ask  her  then  to  meet  you  here  at  nine?  " 
"Yes,  but  leave  us  alone  together.     We  shall  get  on 
far  more  happily  if  you  are  not  present." 

She  rose,  and  moved  toward  the  door,  which  he  opened. 
"Remember,"  said  she,  "  that  I  do  this  for  no  other 
reason  than  to  oblige  you  :  "  then,  with  a  graceful  inclina- 
tion of  her  head,  she  passed  out  into  the  corridor  and  so 
on  up  the  staircase  to  the  floor  above.  He  watched  her 
all  the  way,  but  he  was  conscious  of  feigning  this  interest 
and  he  reproached  himself  for  his  ingratitude. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  285 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  story  may  now  be  better  told  in  the  following 
letters  from  Brigit  to  the  Reverend  Mother  of  the  Convent 
of  the  Sacred  Heart  at  Tours. 

"  Madrid,  August,  1869. 

"  Again  my  plans  are  changed.  Early  this  morning,  I  was 
formally  presented  to  Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  She  and  I  were  to- 
gether for  a  short  time  last  night,  while  we  were  waiting  for 
Mr.  Orange's  return,  and  she  did  not  then  appear  well  disposed 
toward  me.  She  seemed  lackadaisical  and  frigid — she  might 
have  been  a  toy  nightingale  with  a  musical  box  in  her  breast, 
and,  whenever  she  opened  her  lips  to  say  '  Yes  '  or  •  No,'  I 
expected  to  hear  the  plaintive  tinkle  oi  Au  clair  de  la  lune. 
But  to-day  she  was  another  creature — all  smiles,  and  curls  and 
kindness.  She  may  be  ten  years  older  than  myself;  she  is  very 
blue  round  the  eyes,  a  little  hollow  in  the  cheeks.  Her  figure 
is  graceful :  she  has  quantities  of  flaxen  hair,  a  pink-and-white 
complexion,  a  foolish  rather  pretty  mouth,  and  a  chin  like  Mar- 
tin Luther's.  She  dresses  beautifully  and  her  waist  cannot 
measure  eighteen  inches.  I  had  no  opportunity  to  observe  her 
closely,  so  I  give  you  this  impression — taken  at  a  glance — for 
what  it  is  worth.  It  will  at  least  present  some  idea  to  your 
mind  of  the  person  to  whom  I  am  already  indebted  to  an  extent 
beyond  all  ordinary  gratitude.  Her  manner  of  receiving  me 
was,  as  I  have  said,  a  surprise  in  the  happiest  way.  Mr. 
Orange  left  us  alone.  She  took  both  my  hands,  looked  a  long 
time  into  my  face,  and  then  drew  me  beside  her  on  the  sofa. 

"  She  said,  '  You  have  my  deepest  sympathy  !  How  cruelly 
you  have  suffered  !  But  you  have  shown  ^r^rt/ ^/?<<:/^.'  (Such 
were  her  words.)     '  May  I  help  you  ?  ' 

"  '  I  wish  to  rejoin  my  husband,'  said  I. 

"  This  seemed  to  cause  her  some  amazement. 

"  '  Do  you  know  where  he  is  ?  '  she  asked. 

"  •  He  is  yachting  in  the  Mediterranean  with  Lord  Soham,'  I 
replied.     •  I  must  wait  for  hina  at  some  port.     But  until  I  have 


286  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

more  definite  instructions,  I  want  to  go  to  the  Convent — where 
I  was  educated — in  Tours.' 

"  '  Ah,'  said  she,  '  I  have  another  suggestion  to  offer.  It 
would  give  me  so  much  pleasure,  if  you  would  spend  some 
weeks  with  me  at  my  home  in  the  country,  in  England.  If  you 
care  for  books  and  flowers,  I  have  an  old-fashioned  garden  and 
a  good  library.  The  society  at  Catesby  v»'ould,  I  daresay,  be 
good  if  there  were  any.  But  there  is  none.  It  is  very  quiet 
and  restful.     Do  come." 

"  I  was  so  touched  by  this  generosity  that  I  could  not  speak. 
She  took  her  answer  from  my  tears. 

"  '  There  are  plain  and  simple  duties,'  said  she,  '  for  which 
we  need  not  go  far,  but  which  are  made  nigh  to  us,  which  meet 
us  in  our  every-day  path.  Suffer  we  all  must,  whether  things 
in  this  world  go  what  the  world  thinks  well  or  what  it  deems 
ill.  But  though  God  undo  one  by  one  the  links  which  bind  us 
to  this  life,  we  shall,  if  we  are  wise,  see  them  patiently  unclasped  ; 
the  objects  of  our  affections,  our  strength,  our  health,  we  shall 
resign  them  peacefully  at  His  call  :  counting  it  the  happy  lot, 
not  to  have  but  to  lose  ;  to  "  sow  in  tears,"  if,  by  His  mercy,  we 
may  at  last  "  reap  in  joy."  Our  lot,  as  Christians,  is  to  be  in 
the  world,  yet  we  are  not  to  be  of  it.' 

"  These  words  of  true  piety  astonished  and  embarrassed  me. 
I  had  not  looked  for  such  sentiments  from  so  much  pale  blue  silk. 
She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  solemnity  as  though  she  were  reading  a 
sermon.  I  feel  sure  that  she  was  sincere — and,  it  the  speech 
lacked  the  accent  of  really  profound  emotion,  it  v\-as  because 
the  brook  has  not  the  same  voice — nor  the  same  storms — as  the 
sea.  I  told  her  that  I  did  not  ask  to  live  free  of  all  sorrows. 
Could  I  look  among  crowds  for  that  peace  which  is  not  to  be 
found  even  in  solitude  ?  Should  men  and  women  give  us  what 
God  has  already  denied  us  ? 

"  '  But,'  said  I,  '  it  may  be  that  the  too-eager  abandonment 
of  all  natural  hopes  and  affections  comes  from  pride — -the  am- 
bition to  be,  while  we  are  yet  dust,  like  the  angels  of  God. 
And  while  I  might  be  tempted  to  feel  exalted  at  my  resigna- 
tion, God,  Who  cannot  be  deceived,  would  know  that  it  came — 
not  from  virtue,  but  from  a  cultured  inhumanity  !  Does  Our 
Blessed  Lady  in  Heaven  forget  the  song  of  rapture  she  sang  at 
Karem,  or  the  bitter  anguish — voiceless  and  never  to  be  told — • 
of  Calvary  ?  I  cannot  say  then,  "  Take  my  happiness.  I  do 
not  need  it.  I  am  better  off  without  it.  Before  the  year  is  past, 
I  shall  have  reason  to  be  glad  that  it  is  no  longer  with  me." 
Oh,  no  !  But  I  can  say,  "  Take  it  if  it  be  Thy  Will  to  take  it. 
It  is  my  life.     When  it  has  gone,  I  may  indeed  be  calm,  because 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  287 

my  capacity  for  grief — or  for  any  other  feeling — will  have  gone 
also  !  "  Self  absorbed  and  self-sufficient,  I,  a  clay  thing,  would 
contain  the  ashes  of  my  soul — ashes  and  ashes  only  ! ' 

"  I  could  see  that  she  did  not  understand  me.  She  quoted  the 
verse  from  St.  Paul's  epistle  to  the  Hebrews  : — 

"  '  Looking  unto  "Jesus,  the  Author  aitd  Finisher  of  Otir 
Faith,  Who,  for  the  joy  which  was  set  before  Him,  endured 
the  Cross,  despising  the  shame,  and  is  set  down  at  the  right 
hand  of  the  throne  of  God.' 

"These  sublime  words — uttered  by  that  serene  prosperous 
creature  who,  from  the  day  of  her  birth,  through  no  fault  but 
also  through  no  virtue  of  her  own,  has  been  watched  over  and 
tenderly  guarded,  adored  and  indulged — seemed  less  a  consola- 
tion than  a  sacrilege.  I  could  have  laughed  aloud — and  cried, 
too,  at  the  contrast  between  the  lives  of  the  saints  and  the  lives 
of  those  who  can  lightly  murmur — over  a  disappointing  bonnet 
or  a  love-letter  too  cold — their  exhortations  to  martyrdom. 
Lady  Fitz  Revves  is  a  widow.I  know,  and  she  bears  her  lot  with 
dove-like  meekness.  But  place  her  grief  beside  the  fate  of  my 
poor  friend  the  Countess  Des  Escas,  who  lost  husband,  sons, 
possessions,  and  finally  her  own  life  in  a  struggle  for  another 
person's  rights.  That  was  a  sacrifice — that,  a  true  act  of  re- 
nunciation, that  was  a  heart  offered  up  freely  and  voluntarily 
neither  for  credit  here  nor  crowns  hereafter,  but  purely  and 
singly  out  of  devotion  to  God,  her  king,  and  her  country.  Yet 
she  always  read  St.  Paul,  kneeling.  Ah,  dear  Reverend 
Mother,  her  example  is  a  constant  reproach  to  me,  and  when- 
ever I  find  myself  weeping  (that  happens  sometimes)  over  my 
own  little  miseries,  I  am  filled  with  self-contempt  at  the  thought 
of  her  grandeur — and  my  poverty  of  spirit.  My  troubles — such 
as  they  are — have  been  sent  to  me.  They  came  against  my  will. 
But  she  asked  for  hers — took  them — and  bore  them  because  she 
loved  her  Church  and  her  true  King.  No  such  surrender  was 
ever  made  in  vain,  and  although  she  died  at  a  cruel  hour  when 
defeat  seemed  the  sole  result  of  all  her  efforts,  I  still  believe 
that  Don  Carlos  will  come  to  reign  over  his  own  people,  that 
Spain  and  France  will  give  back  their  old  allegiance  to  the 
Bourbons. 

"  I  attempted  no  reply  to  Lady  Fitz  Rewes's  text,  for,  to  our 
common  relief,  Mr.  Orange  re-entered  the  room.  As  a  result 
of  the  dreadful  night  at  Loadilla,  he  is  maimed,  disfigured  and 
aged  beyond  recognition.  His  face,  however,  is  one  which  does 
not  depend  on  his  features — although  they  are,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  good.  A  written  description  of  his  characteristics  would 
satisfy  neither  you  nor  myself — I  can  but  say  that  he  is  consid- 


288  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ered  handsome.  I  have  read  your  last  letter  frequently.  I  un- 
derstand your  fears  and  your  warning.  Believe  me,  you  have 
no  cause  for  alarm.  My  esteem  for  M.  de  Hausee  (as  he  is 
sometimes  called)  is  so  far  from  a  danger  that  it  is  my  chief 
safeguard.  I  find,  in  spite  of  every  effort,  that  I  keep  the  cour- 
age to  live — not  so  much  for  the  love  of  God  and  the  hope  ot 
Heaven,  as  for  the  desire  to  remain  without  dishonor  in  a  world 
where  my  friends  are — separated  though  we  may  be  by  cruel 
distances  and  circumstances.  If  I  had  not  this  thought  to  sus- 
tain me,  I  do  not  know  how  I  could  bear  the  loneliness  of  my 
journey  on  the  frightful  road  to  death.  Death  itself,  when  at 
last  we  reach  it,  is  probably  not  lonely — for  solitude  is  only 
oppressive  during  our  waking  hours.  In  sleep  we  do  not  feel 
our  solitariness.  I  speak  my  true  thoughts,  dearest  Mother, 
and  while  one  can  speak  truth,  one  is  not  in  the  worst  of 
difficulties.  ...  I  sit  here  with  the  heat,  the  dust,  and  the 
noise  rising  up  to  my  window  from  the  street  below,  and  I 
think  of  the  cool  green  Loire  and  its  bank  where  we  used  to 
walk  and  watch  the  roses — crimson,  white,  and  yellow,  and 
pink,  growmg  over  every  wall  and  in  every  garden  that  we 
passed.  .  .  .  Ah,  si  la  jennesse  savait  .  .  .  those  were  the 
days  of  my  joy  ;  these  so  longed-for,  are  the  days  of  my  trial. 

"Let  me  tell  you  now  what  happened  on  M.  de  Hausde's  en- 
trance. Lady  Fitz  Rewes  blushed  a  deep  red.  The  bells  were 
chiming  from  every  church  in  Madrid.  I  stepped  on  to  the 
balcony  in  order  to  distinguish  more  clearly  the  peals  from  the 
Des  Escas  Convent.  While  I  stood  there,  the  two  had  a  short 
conversation.  I  do  not  know  what  passed,  but  when  Madame 
called  me  back.  Monsieur  was  no  longer  there. 

"  '  He  approves,'  said  she.  '  He  is  so  happy  to  think  that 
you  can  come  to  me.  He  is  devoted  to  you.  Do  you  know 
that  ?  • 

"'He  would  give  his  life  for  any  one  of  his  friends,'  I  an- 
swered :  '  we  can  all  be  sure  of  his  devotion.     He  never  fails.' 

"  •  I  agree  with  you.  He  is  very  noble.  I  often  wonder  what 
will  become  of  him.     He  ought  to  marry.' 

"  'Why  ? '  said  I. 

"'Bachelors  in  public  life  are  at  a  disadvantage.' 

"  '  Then  that  is  the  fault  of  the  women,'  said  I ,  '  for  men  do 
not  care  whether  another  man  is  married  or  not  married." 

"  '  But  a  wife  is  such  a  help,'  said  Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  ■  Surely 
you  would  like  to  see  such  a  splendid  fellow  happily  settled  ?  ' 

" '  To  be  frank.'  said  I,  •  I  have  not  given  the  matter  a 
thought.  He  seems  contented  as  he  is.  It  never  occurred  to 
me  that  anything  more  was  needed.' 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  289 

"  'My  dear,  lie  is  poor  and  he  is  ambitious,' 

"  '  He  is  strong  and  he  has  abilities.     Let  him  work.' 

"  'Of  course,  but  he  over-works.  You  should  have  seen  him 
at  the  time  of  the  election.     It  was  heart-breaking.' 

"  •  His  own  heart  did  not  break,'  said  L 

"  <  Yet  what  a  tight  it  must  have  been,'  she  insisted,  '  and 
now  he  is  merely  at  the  starting  post.     Isn't  it  sorrowful  ? ' 

"'That's  not  sorrow,'  said  I.  But  I  would  add  no  more  on 
the  subject,  and,  thanking  her  again  for  her  goodness,  I  re- 
turned to  my  own  rooms.  Baron  Zeuill,  for  some  reason,  is 
anxious  that  I  should  go  to  England,  and  I  told  him,  without 
loss  of  time,  of  Lady  Fitz  Rewes's  invitation.  He  was — or  he 
affected  to  be — delighted.  He  has  promised  to  get  my  pass- 
port and,  if  it  be  God's  Most  Holy  Will,  I  shall  leave  Madrid 
to-night.  My  joy  at  this  unlooked-for  relief  is  indescribable. 
I  feel  that  you  have  been  offering  many  prayers  for  me.  Such 
a  miraculous  turn  of  fortune  does  not  come  as  my  reward  but 
as  answer  to  your  entreaties. 

"Lord  Wight  and  M.  de  Haus^e  have  not  yet  received  their 
safe-conduct  from  General  Prim.  But  Zeuill  assures  me  that 
the  delay  is  a  matter  of  days — that  it  is  a  little  concession  to 
some  of  the  officials  ...  I  do  not  know  when  I  shall  see  my 
friend  again.  When  he  leaves  Spain,  he  will  go  at  once  to  the 
north — to  Scotland.  And  Catesby  is  in  the  South  of  England. 
— I  am,  dear  Reverend  Mother,  your  devoted  daughter  in 
Christ, 

"  Brigit." 

In  reading  this,  no  one  among  us  with  any  knowledge 
of  human  character  could  feel  that  there  was  much  con- 
tentment, as  the  world  understands  it,  in  store  for  the 
writer.  The  precocious  intelligence,  the  occasional  note 
of  sarcasm,  the  passionate  desire  for  happiness,  are  symp- 
toms all  too  plain  of  that  wasting  fever  of  the  heart  which, 
in  some  cases,  is  the  result  of  meeting  sorrow,  and  in 
others,  of  meeting  love,  too  early  in  life.  To  every  pure 
and  innocent  young  girl,  love  is  a  condition  of  mind,  and 
not  a  strain  on  the  senses.  The  senses,  once  roused, 
may  be  controlled,  killed  or  indulged  according  to  the 
conscience  or  the  strength  of  the  individual.  But  when 
the  senses  still  sleep,  and  the  spirit  only  is  active,  it  is 
19 


290  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

indeed  difficult  to  impose  a  limit  on  tender  interest,  or  to 
define  wherein  excess  of  charity  consists.  Many  women 
— till  the  end  of  their  lives,  and  no  short  lives  either — 
keep  their  affections  so  sacred  from  the  taint  of  selfish 
emotions,  and  so  closely  allied  with  the  love  of  God  that 
it  would  seem  an  act  of  sacrilege  to  analyze  a  devotion 
on  which  even  angels  might  look  with  humility  and  learn 
a  lesson.  To  pretend,  however,  that  no  jealous  thought 
— no  angry  reproach  would,  under  any  provocation, 
enter  into  a  sentiment  of  this  kind,  would  deprive  it  of 
attributes  certainly  as  much  divine  as  human.  Jealousy 
may  be  noble — although  it  is  often  mean.  Anger  may 
be  just — although  it  is  frequently  cruel.  But  that  is  the 
case  with  every  power  of  the  soul,  and,  because  in  some 
of  us  those  forces  which  make  up  spiritual  greatness  have 
become  degraded  into  sins,  nothing  could  be  falser 
idealism  than  to  assume  that  true  perfection  is  composed 
of  negatives — that  the  best  saint  is  the  one  with  the 
fewest  feelings.  Jesus  Christ  draws  all  humanity  to  Him, 
not  because  while  on  earth  He  felt  less,  but  because  He 
felt  more  than  all  the  rest  of  mankind.  And  the  purer  the 
heart,  the  greater  its  capacity  for  sorrow  and  joy — the 
sweeter  seems  earthly  blessings,  the  more  humiliating 
seems  earthly  pain.  It  was  not  easy  for  the  Divine 
Redeemer  of  the  World  to  give  a  complete  and  irrevo- 
cable acquiescence  in  God's  mysterious  decrees.  Can 
one  read  of  the  Agony  at  Gethsemane,  and  doubt  that 
even  the  smallest  act  of  self-mortification  in  the  least  of 
us  has  been  sanctified  by  that  ineffable  victory  over  the 
desire  to  escape  death — whether  of  the  will  or  in  the 
flesh  ? 

Brigit's  will  was  her  best  gift.  But,  as  in  nature,  the 
sun  that  quickens  the  harvest  must,  if  unrelieved  by 
other  influences,  also  destroy  it,  so  does  a  fine  quality 
become,  in  the   human  being,  the  source  of  disasters  as 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  291 

well  as  triumphs.  Brigit  wanted,  to  use  the  familiar 
phrase,  her  own  way.  It  was  not  an  evil  way — not  a 
way  that  could  be  found,  by  any  judgment,  other  than 
pleasing  to  God  as  He  is  known  to  us.  How  hard  then 
it  must  have  been  for  that  young  impulsive  heart  to  realize 
that  the  path  of  her  choice — though  a  good  one — vvas  not 
the  one  which  her  Master  wished  her  to  tread.  What  be- 
wilderment and  dismay,  what  self-doubt  and  doubt  of 
all  things  assail  even  the  wisest  of  mortals  when  they 
find  that  the  lawful  is  not  always  expedient,  that  a  meas- 
ure, blameless  in  itself,  is  not  invariably  the  measure  set 
down  by  command.  Among  the  countless  problems  pre- 
sented to  the  mind,  there  is  none  more  difficult  than  to  dis- 
tinguish clearly  between  the  will  of  Providence  and  the 
accidents,  to  be  surmounted,  of  daily  life, — to  know  when 
one  should  submit  to  circumstances  and  when  one  should 
rise  in  rebellion  against  them.  This  was  Brigit's  hard 
position.  The  course  before  her  was  winding,  full  of  ob- 
structions, dense  overhead,  and,  under  her  feet,  stony. 
Shall  we  wonder  then  if  her  letters  should  contain  much 
that  is  contradictory,  much  that  is  puzzling.? 

"Catesby  Hall,  1869. 

<•  My  dear  Reverend  Mother, — I  am  once  more  in  England, 
and  so  strange  is  the  effect  oi  this  climate,  my  new  surroundings, 
and  the  calm,  that,  while  I  have  not  forgotten  the  past,  the  past 
seems  to  have  forgotten  me.  It  never  calls  me.  So  I  wait  upon 
the  present.  This  Hall  was  once  a  Monastery.  It  is  surrounded 
by  flat  meadows  and  plantations.  The  meadows  are  often 
covered  by  an  azure  mist  which,  they  say,  comes  from  the  hills. 
There  is  a  gray  mist  also.  That  comes  from  the  sea.  And 
then  there  is  a  white  mist.  That  rises  from  the  ground.  I  love 
the  lawn  and  the  flower-beds,  but,  more  than  all,  the  splendid 
trees.  They  cast  strange  shadows  on  the  grass.  I  walk  alone 
among  them  and  wonder  what  they  mean.  .  .  .  My  hostess  does 
not  give  parties,  but  she  receives  a  number  of  visitors,  to  whom 
I  am  always  presented  as  Madame  de  Parjlete.  How  is  it  that 
one  meets  charming  people  every  day  with  whom  it  is,  for  some 


292  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

reason,  impossible  to  exchange  a  thouglit  ?  We  know  nothing 
about  them  :  we  realize  that  they  have  no  desire  to  hear  anything 
about  us  :  our  feelings  are  not  wounded  by  their  indifference, 
and  they,  on  their  part,  are  no  less  philosophic.  We  say  good- 
day  and  mean  good-bye.  We  touch  hands  and  pass  on — each 
on  our  way  to  eternity.  .  .  .  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  assures  me  that 
to  be  happy,  a  woman  should  have  as  many  acquaintances  and 
as  few  friends  as  possible.  Acquaintances  are  often  useful, 
whereas  Iriends  are  a  constant  anxiety.  I  was  surprised  at  this 
selfish  remark  from  so  sweet  a  creature.  It  might  have  been 
made  by  my  husband.  And  yet,  what  is  it  but  a  crude  expres- 
sion of  that  rule  of  detachment  which  is  the  first  principle  of 
a  life  consecrated  to  the  service  of  God?  I  try  to  practise  it, 
and  I  am  trainmg  myself  to  think  of  things — not  persons.  The 
greater  part  of  the  time  my  endeavors  are  successful.  The 
little  son  and  daughter  of  this  house  are  pretty  delightful  beings 
with  perfect  manners.  English  children  have  the  best  breeding 
imaginable.  I  cannot  describe  their  many  charming  graces- 
shyness,  affection,  candor,  obedience,  respect  for  their  elders, 
kindness  toward  the  poor — these  are  but  a  few  surface  virtues 
in  hearts  moulded,  one  would  swear,  after  the  old  chivalrous 
pattern.  And  yet — these  very  children — models  to  every  mother 
in  the  world,  grow  up  into  a  race  renowned  for  their  barbarous 
discourtesy — both  to  strangers  and  each  other.*  Toward  their 
social  superiors  they  display  a  sad  uneasiness  which  is  shown 
sometimes  by  a  nervous  familiarity,  more  often  by  a  grotesque 
awe.  Their  adoration  of  native  titles  is  so  great  that,  if  they 
could  have  their  way,  they  would  give  a  city  knight  precedence 
over  all  or  any  of  the  monarchs  of  Europe.  A  country  baronet 
means  much  to  them,  but  they  can  form  no  idea  of  a  Spanish 
grandee.  The  gloomiest  English  person  will  smile  at  the 
mention  of  a  French  count  or  an  Italian  prince.  Lady  Fitz 
Rewes  herself  laughs  at  these  absurdities,  and  even  repeated  to 
me  a  remark  made  by  her  uncle,  to  the  effect  that  things  were 
different  in  the  old  days,  when  England  had  an  aristocracy — but 
•  manners  left  her  when  she  lost  Calais'  and '  Elizabeth  flouted 
the  great  nobles  in  order  to  hold  a  Cotirt  for  criminals,  liars 
and  thieves.'  This  is  very  severe.  But  I  am  now  reading  the 
works  of  Thackeray,  and  certainly  he  paints  a  sickening  picture 
oi  his  countrymen.  Lord  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Carlyle  are  no 
less  bitter,  and  although  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  a  more  flattering 
pen,   he  writes  ol  other' ages    than  the    present,  and  shows  a 

*  It  should  be  remembered  that  Brigit  was  visiting  in  1869,  when  English  manners, 
particularly  in  provincial  society,  were  very  much  more  pompous  than  they  are  at  the 
present  day— 1897, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  293 

desire  to  escape  from  facts  immediately  within  his  observation. 
Speaking  from  my  own  experience,  I  can  say  that  the  kindness 
of  Pensde  (she  has  asked  me  to  call  her  by  her  Christian  name) 
more  than  outweighs  the  vulgarity  of  her  neighbors — for  whom 
she  cannot  be  held  responsible.  Let  me  give  you  an  example 
of  the  latter.  For  my  own  amusement,  I  teach  the  children 
French  and  music.  Their  governess  is  absent  for  her  holiday, 
and  so,  as  they  associate  me  with  lessons,  they  call  me  Made- 
moiselle. The  other  day,  some  fresh  callers  hearing  this,  treated 
me  with  immense  condescension  and,  to  my  joy,  left  me  to  my- 
self. The  men,  however,  only  ventured  to  address  me  when 
the  women  were  not  looking — and  this  I  found  rather  an  insult 
than  an  attention.  The  Bishop's  wife — who  had  met  me  before 
— must  have  noticed  my  resentment,  for  she  observed  in  a  loud 
whisper  to  a  Lady  Harivale  (she  was  waiting  for  her  turn  at 
croquet)  that  •  /  was  very  highly  connected  and  had  a  large 
fortii7ie.'  This  remedy  was  worse  than  the  offence.  Yet  I 
suppose  my  well-meaning  ally  knew  her  generation,  for  the 
talk  was  no  longer  carried  on  over  my  head.  I  was  lifted,  as 
it  were,  into  the  circle.  I  was  shown  the  most  flattering 
civilities.  In  fact,  the  same  person  who,  a  moment  before,  had 
received  cruel  slights  for  her  supposed  poverty  now  received 
whole  garlands  of  smiles  for  her  supposed  wealth.  Such  a  thing 
could  not  have  happened  in  France.  My  singing,  which  had 
seemed  but  a  monkey-trick  for  the  entertainment  of  the  guests, 
became  '  an  enviable  gift,'  '  a  glorious  talent.'  My  awkward 
failures  at  croquet— which  had  tilled  my  fellow-players  with 
undisguised  annoyance — were  now  '  quite  wonderful  for  a  be- 
ginner.' I  had  some  difficulty  in  hiding  my  contempt,  and  I 
left  the  group,  as  you  may  well  believe,  as  soon  as  possible.  At 
dinner  last  night,  Pensee  was  unusually  sad.  '  Do  you  wonder,' 
said  she,  •  why  my  poor  Lionel  died  ?  He  thought  it  was  his 
duty  to  be  civil  to  these  horrid  middle-class  people,  because  of 
his  position  in  the  county  and  all  that.  But  no  one  could  like 
them.  They  are  so  pushing  and  such  snobs.  Once  one  could 
turn  them  all  loose  into  an  annual  garden-party  and  have  done 
with  them.  That  doesn't  satisfy  them  now.  They  expect  me 
to  go  to  all  their  parties — and  I  would  rather  have  them  here 
every  week  than  do  that.'  She  then  told  me  that  she  had  heard 
from  Mr.  Orange.  He  has  at  last  left  Spain  and  is  on  his  way 
to  Scotland  with  Lord  Wight.     Thank  God  ! 

"  I  have  had  a  further  conversation  with  Pensee  on  the  subject 
of  friends.  She  declares  now  that,  for  the  future,  she  will  not 
entertain  people  for  whom  she  has  neither  respect  nor  liking. 
In  this  way  she  hopes  to  form  a  pleasant  circle.     We  amused 


294  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ourselves  by  making  a  little  list  of  our  favorites.  It  contained 
seven  names.  '  I  want  to  know  what  a  man  is,'  said  she.  '  I 
don't  care  what  his  father  was.  And  I  have  the  same  idea 
about  women.  Rank  and  temporal  distinctions  count  for  little 
in  these  matters.  Nature  alone  can  produce  the  true  aristo- 
crat !  '  She  is  becoming  quite  bold  in  her  notions.  '  How  can 
God,'  said  she,  '  love  all  His  creatures  ?  Most  of  us  are  de- 
testable.* •  He  loves  us  because  He  created  us,'  I  answered. 
•That  thought  is  a  great  help,'  said  she.  'But  all  the  same 
I  don't  see  why  I  should  try  to  like  that  odious  Augusta  Hari- 
vale  ! '  Pensee,  you  will  see,  has  a  child-like  charm  which  is 
bewitching.  Each  day  I  become  more  fond  of  her.  If  I  were 
her  own  sister,  she  could  not  treat  me  with  greater  kindness. 
We  never  speak  now  of  Mr.  Orange.  She  writes  to  him  occa- 
sionally, and  I  know  that  she  loves  him.  A  marriage  between 
them  would  be,  in  many  respects,  desirable.  I  do  not  yet  pray 
for  it.  .  .  .  My  indifference  toward  the  future  gives  me  a  certain 
happiness  in  the  present.  You  say  in  your  letter  that  affection 
either  grows  or  dies — that  unchangeable  sentiments  are  for 
feeble  natures  only.  This  is,  no  doubt,  true.  I  will  now  speak 
more  openly  than  I  have  yet  been  able  to  speak.  My  reserve  so 
far  has  not  been  due  to  cowardice  but  ignorance.  I  could  not 
understand  my  own  feelings.  There  is  in  all  of  us  a  desire  of 
the  eyes  which  seems  to  detach  us  from  God — Who  is  Invisible 
— and  draw  us  toward  sensible  objects — the  beings  we  see  and 
meet.  The  saints  were  not  all  spirit :  the  chiefest  of  sinners  is 
not  all  flesh  :  men  and  women  are  always  and  everywhere  com- 
posed of  both  elements.  My  soul  loves  its  guardian  angel  ;  my 
heart  could  love  a  companion.  But  at  present  it  seems  well 
satisfied  to  be  alone.  I  find  an  unspeakable  quiet  happiness  in 
the  society  of  Pensde  and  her  children.  Yet  I  believe  that  I 
could  part  from  them  without  a  pang— so  closely  do  I  watch 
my  affections.  I  make  this  constant  prayer,  '  Let  me  love  no 
one  too  well — let  me  not  give  that  devotion  to  mortals  which  is 
due  to  Thee  only.'  I  cannot  thank  you  sufficiently,  dear 
Reverend  Mother,  for  teaching  me  early  in  life  the  folly  of  all 
intimate  and  violent  friendships.  To  what  regrets  and  mis- 
placed confidences  do  they  inevitably  lead  ?  To  what  fierce 
hatreds  and  irrevocable  words  ?  To  what  sorrows  and  calam- 
ities ?  Pensge  once  endeavored  to  question  me  about  my  hus- 
band. I  told  her  that  I  could  not  discuss  him.  She  has  never 
returned  to  the  subject.  ...  I  am  at  last  resolved  on  one  point. 
If  I  am  not  to  rejoin  him,  I  shall  take  up  my  residence  per- 
manently in  some  Convent." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  295 

"  Catesby  Hall,  September,  1869, 

"  Have  you  heard  of  Mr.  Parflete's  death  ?  It  is  either  a  lie  or 
he  has  met  with  foul  play.  My  brain  is  on  fire.  Have  they 
murdered  him  ?  He  always  lived  in  fear  of  treachery.  God  in 
Heaven  !  v^hat  am  I  to  think  ?  They  tell  me  that  I  am.  ill.  O, 
come  to  me." 

This  note — the  last  in  the  little  packet — bears  the 
following  addition  written  in  Lady  Fitz  Rewes's  hand  : — 

"  I  am  thankful  to  say  that  there  seems  no  ground  for  dear 
Brigit's  terrible  suspicions.  Lord  Soham,  with  whom  Mr. 
Parflete  was  travelling,  has  sent  a  full  account  of  his  last  illness, 
which  was  the  normal  result  of  an  intemperate  life.  He  had 
complained  of  insomnia  lor  some  weeks,  and,  in  a  mood  of 
insane  depression,  jumped  over-boaru  during  a  calm  night  off 
Genoa.  It  is  all  too  shocking.  Brigit  has  been  at  death's  door 
— we  feared  for  her  reason,  I  did  not  write  to  you  because  I 
did  not  know  whether  she  would  wish  me  to  write.  She  is  so 
extraordinarily  reserved.  The  poor  darling  is  better,  but  so 
weak  and  desolate.  I  try  to  console  myself  with  that  beautiful 
text,  '  Therefore,  behold,  Iivill  allure  her  and  bring  her  into 
the  wilderness,  and  speak  to  her  heart.  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  that  her  spirit — that  proud,  brave  spirit — is  broken.  But 
she  is  very  still,  and  she  has  not  shed  one  tear." 


296  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

Robert  happened  to  be  in  London  at  Wight  House 
when  he  received  the  news  of  Parflete's  suicide.  Lady 
Fitz  Rewes  wrote  the  letter,  and  it  seemed  to  him  to 
contain  something-  Uke  an  undercurrent  of  reproach — as 
though  she  would  have  said,  had  she  dared,  "  Now  you 
have  got  your  will.  ]\Iuch  good  may  it  do  you  !  "  This, 
he  felt,  was  not  merely  vindictive  but  unjust.  He  could 
have  sworn,  with  a  clear  conscience,  that  his  hopes  had 
never  sought  for  nourishment  in  any  open  grave.  Hope 
— in  the  matter  of  love  and  marriage — had  been  so  far 
from  him  that  he  had  even  partially  resolved  to  abandon 
his  political  career  and  with  it  all  those  things  which  are 
called  the  enjoyments  of  society.  His  mind  went  back 
to  its  first  education  and  the  early  prejudices  he  had 
formed  in  favor  of  the  military  life.  Forgetting  the  squalid 
disillusions  of  a  garrison  town,  the  bugle  once  more 
sounded  sweeter  in  his  ears  than  the  lark's  song,  and, 
to  his  eyes,  theraggedest  uniform  appeared  more  glorious 
than  any  great  Civilians  court  livery.  At  Madrid  his  soul 
liad  been  tinged,  for  the  first  time,  with  the  red  passion  of 
war  and  a  brief  indulgence  of  his  fighting  instincts — an 
indulgence  the  more  intoxicating  because  all  his  softer 
feelings  were  dissatisfied — had  roused  in  him  that  desire  of 
the  sword  which  is  not  the  less  powerful  because  it  is  the 
least  censured  of  all  lusts.  He  saw  France  and  Spain 
united  under  one  King  and  forming  one  great  Catholic 
power.      He  dreamed  dreams  of  a  new  Renaissance  which 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  297 

were  not  too  wild  to  be  prophetic  visions,  and,  lost  in  the 
golden  atmosphere  of  these  musings,  he  would  often  forget 
the  narrow  question  of  his  own  future  and  the  gray  desola- 
tion  of  his  own  heart.      But  the  strongest  will  must  seem 
vacillating,  weak  and  ineffective  under  that  disease  which 
comes  from  an  unavowed  and  unpermitted  misery.     And 
so  there  were  other  times  when  Robert  thought  the  Clois- 
ter  and   austerities    more    alluring   than  the  battle-field, 
when  he   wished  to  live  in  an   indissoluble  alliance  with 
solitude — possessing  nothing  on  this  earth  and   desiring 
nothing,  waiting  for  nothing,  hoping  for  nothing — dead  to 
love  and  dead  to  sorrow,  yet  rising  in  the  watches  of  the 
night  to  pray — to  make  supplications,   intercessions  and 
thanksgivings  for  all  men — that  they  might  be  saved  and 
come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  truth.      He  felt  that  his 
taste  for  the  world  had  gone.      He  was  no  longer  able  to 
persuade  himself  that  ambition  was  a  duty.     It  had  been 
the  chief  pleasure  of  his  existence.     The  old  restless  crav- 
ing for  power  had  vanished,  like  a   quenched  flame,  into 
the  air.     Public  life  had  suddenly  lost  its  charm,  and  the 
striving  for  a  nation's  honors  seemed  but  one  degree  more 
foolish  than  the  vanity  of  sorrowing  under  a  nation's  neg- 
lect.    He  worked  half  the  day  on  his  History  of  the  Duke  of 
Guise,   and  during   the  intervals  of  necessary  rest  made 
long  meditations  on  his  disregard  of  fame.      Is  it  possible 
to  be  eight-and-twenty,   hot-blooded,  a  lover  and  consist- 
ent }     We  read  the  following  passage  in  his  Journal  of 
that  date : — 

"  The  immortal  spirit  can  find  no  permanent  content  in  pleas- 
ures that  must  pass,  no  permanent  despair  in  griefs  that  are 
also  transient  although  their  flight  be  slower.  Joy  is  a  swal- 
low ;  woe,  an  eagle,  but  both  have  wings.  The  soul  that  is  hid 
with  God  may  watch  around  these  birds  and  wanderers  whirl- 
ing, drifting,  darting  around  the  ever-fixed  Rock  of  Christ's 
Church  — away  from  which  there  is  indeed  no  salvation  either  in 
time  or  in  eternity." 


298  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

These  thoughts  may  have  called  to  Robert  as  an  an- 
swer to  his  tortured  mood.  If  they  could  not  cure  the  ill, 
they  gave  him  at  least  the  fortitude  to  endure  it.  He 
turned  his  face  toward  the  imperishable  city,  and  swore 
to  throw  no  longing  glances  back  into  the  Valley  of 
Shadows  where  most  of  us,  in  spite  of  all  our  wisdom, 
love  to  linger.  The  news  of  Parflete's  suicide,  therefore, 
proved  less  a  relief  than  an  appalling  check.  What  was  he 
to  think  ?  Was  his  sacrifice — now  that  he  had  shown 
himself  able  to  make  it — rejected  ? 

"  It  is  all  for  the  best, "  said  Lord  Wight,  who  was  with 
him  when  Pensde's  letter  arrived. 

"I  pray  God  it  may  be  for  the  best,"  said  Robert.  A 
worse  thing  than  unhappiness  had  befallen  him — and  that 
was  uncertainty. 

Men  will  own  willingly  the  dangers,  escapes,  reverses 
and  fatigues  that  they  have  met  or  suffered  in  the  body. 
Such  tales  inspire  the  heart  with  courage  and  a  hero  is 
found  great  in  proportion  to  the  desperation  of  his  earthly 
circumstances.  But  when  we  come  to  the  adventures 
of  the  spiritual  world,  the  case  is  changed.  Either 
from  pride  or  cowardice,  it  has  become  the  fashion  to 
make  light  of  those  mental  combats  and  perils  by  which, 
after  all,  human  action  is  determined  and  must  ultimately 
be  judged.  Men,  who  after  many  secret  disasters  have 
attained  to  the  apparent  serenity  of  middle-age,  will  often 
leave  it  to  be  inferred  that  they  have  never  been  other- 
wise than  sure  of  their  own  opinions,  confident  in  their 
own  good  sense,  and  unswerving  in  their  duty  toward 
God,  their  neighbors  and  themselves.  They  ask  what  is 
the  meaning  of  temptation  (beyond  the  common  indis- 
cretions of  the  table),  and  they  feel  certain  that  the  soul 
must  be  already  in  a  bad  way  when  Satan  has  the  hardi- 
hood to  address  it.  As  for  them,  they  know  nothing 
about  demons,  and,  while  they  have  had,  with  the  rest  of 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  299 

mankind,  their  ups  and  downs — these  necessary  shifts  by 
a  special  Providence,  were  never  permitted  to  disturb  their 
reason's  equilibrium.  Now  if  these  accounts  were  true, 
it  might  well  be  said  that  the  Gospel  has  been  preached 
in  vain.  But  they  are  not  true,  and,  in  the  same  way 
that  we  doubt  the  sportsman's  tale  of  game  too  big  for 
the  compass  of  an  ordinary  vision,  we  doubt  these  cheer- 
ful pretenders  to  a  moral  infallibility  beyond  our  hidden 
— but  no  less  real — experience  of  life.  To  err,  we  admit, 
is  human,  but  to  confess  the  error  belongs  to  the  saint 
alone.  But  whether  we  confess  it  or  whether  we  deny  it 
— we  all  know  that  unless  man  has  an  infinite  capacity 
for  being  foolish,  self-renunciation  is  not  a  victory  and 
faith  is  no  virtue.  The  fact,  then,  of  Brigit's  freedom 
seemed  yet  another  difficulty  in  Orange's  steep  path.  He 
feared — ^just  as  she  herself  had  feared — that  some  crime 
had  been  committed.  Zeuill's  message  proved  nothing. 
The  evidence  of  Lord  Soham — a  tipsy  imbecile — was 
valueless. 

•'  Mr.  Parflete  left  a  farewell  letter  for  his  wife,"  wrote  Lady 
Fitz  Rewes  ;  "she  has  allowed  me  to  see  parts  of  it.  I  cannot 
feel  that  he  was  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties.  Such  senti- 
ments !  such  impiety  !  It  is  too  dreadful.  In  view  ot  the 
altered  and  peculiar  circumstances,  there  is  no  reason  why  Mrs. 
Parflete,  on  her  recovery  from  the  shock,  should  not  come  to 
town  for  the  opening  of  Parliament  in  February." 

Robert  thought  the  whole  communication  harsh  and 
tactless.  He  did  not  know  that  Pensde  had  shed  tears 
over  the  first  three  copies  of  that  poor  letter,  and  spoiled 
two  signatures  by  breaking  down  completely.  Is  it  an 
easy  task  for  any  woman  to  tell  the  man  she  loves  that  a 
more  delightful  bride  maybe  his  for  the  wooing.?  This 
question  did  not  occur  to  Orange.  With  all  his  faults,  he 
was  no  coxcomb,  and  he  could  never  believe  that  he  was  in 
reality  an  object  of  lasting  interest  to  the  Lady  Fitz  Rewes. 
She  had  so  many  admirers — rich   men,   handsome  men, 


30O  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

men  who  deserved  her — at  her  feet.  How  should  she 
care  deeply  for  a  dull  fellow  whom  she  rarely  saw  and 
who  was  never,  at  any  time,  much  to  look  at  ?  Her  liking 
was  a  mere  caprice — nothing;  more. 

And  so  his  reply  was  a  severe  surprise  to  the  love-sick 
mistress  of  Catesby  Hall. 

"  Wight  House,  St.  James's,  September,  1869. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Fitz  Revves, — Your  news  is  terrible  and, 
in  spite  of  all  the  documents,  I  am  not  yet  convinced  that  we 
have  the  true  story.  Parflete  was  not  a  man  to  commit  suicide. 
He  loved  himself — in  one  sense — too  well  and  felt  dishonor  so 
little  that  it  could  not  have  affected  his  quite  admirable  brains. 
I  suspect  some  crime  or  else  a  trick.  Mrs.  Parflete  must  be  on 
her  guard.  When  you  tell  me  that  she  is  well  enough  to  read 
letters,  I  shall  write  to  her.  I  fear,  however,  that  her  illness 
will  be  a  long  one.  I  understand  her  nature  and  this  last  cal- 
amity must  seem— to  a  mind  so  sensitive  for  others — the  worst 
of  all. 

"  I  leave  London  to-night  with  Lord  Wight.  Our  destination 
— Slatrach  Castle.*  He  is  tired  of  the  Border. — Believe  me, 
my  dear  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  yours  sincerely, 

"  Robert  de  H.  Orange." 

He  was  offended  and  he  wished  Pensee  to  know  it. 
He  kept  this  answer  in  his  pocket  till  the  evening  in  order 
to  convince  himself  that  he  meant  it  as  a  well-considered, 
perfectly  kind  rebuke.  He  posted  it  on  his  way  to  the 
Capitol  Club  where  he  had  an  appointment  to  meet  a  new 
acquaintance,  Hartley  Penborough,  a  Government  clerk 
of  literary  gifts,  who  founded,  some  years  later,  that  ex- 
cellent weekly  journal  called  Jlie  Sentinel,  and  who  be- 
came, eventually,  a  Permanent  Under-Secretary  of  State. 
He  wrote,  at  this  time  (1869),  an  occasional  leader  for  the 
best  Tory  newspapers.  But  his  father  was  an  Admiral, 
and  his  mother,  a  Dean's  daughter,  and  he  was  at  heart  a 
Whig  under  the  influence  of  St.  Peter.  At  the  first  sight 
of  Robert,  he  accused  him  of  looking  better. 

*  Lord  Wight's  shooting  lodge  in  the  Western  Highlands. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  301 

"  I  am  all  right,"  said  Robert. 

"  I  hope  you  have  given  up  the  idea  of  leaving  your 
present  line." 

"  I  shall  keep  to  it  for  a  while  at  all  events." 

"I  should  think  so.  When  we  have  commenced  a 
career,  what  stop  is  there  but  the  grave  ?  If  ambition  has 
once  entered  into  a  man  there  is  no  more  rest  for  him 
upon  this  earth." 

"I  can't  agree  with  that.  I  can  imagine  the  sacrifice 
of  ambition  no  less  than  the  sacrifice  of  other  passions 
and  appetites." 

"Then  there  is  more  youthfulness  in  your  imagination 
than  there  is  in  all  my  being  !  At  my  greenest  period, 
when  I  would  have  renounced  home,  country,  women, 
wine,  wealth  (perhaps  because  I  was  an  ugly  beggar),  I 
hugged  my  little  hope  of  gaining  glory.  It  was  my 
solitary  possession.  It  is  the  one  thing  that  a  poor  devil 
can  keep  in  spite  of  his  enemies — or  his  virtues,  his  bank- 
ing account  or  his  wife.  By-the-by,  I  see  that  Reckage 
is  engaged  to  an  heiress  with  ten  thousand  a  year." 

"You  mean  Agnes  Carillon  ?  " 

"That's  the  girl — the  daughter  of  Dr.  Carillon,  the 
Bishop  of  Hartley.  I  have  danced  with  her,  but  she 
wouldn't  remember  me.  ...  I  suppose  it's  a  good  match 
on  both  sides." 

"  It  couldn't  be  better.  You  know  I  believe  in 
Reckage." 

"  Do  you  ? "  said  Penborough,  dryly. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  his  Church  Party  .?  " 

"The  Bond  of  Association?  I  have  never  thought 
about  it  ni  my  life.  While  there  is  such  a  thing  as  religion , 
there  will  be  rows  and  opportunities  for  action.  But  is 
Reckage  the  man  to  lead  ?  Has  he  the  three  essentials 
of  a  superior  intelligence — genius,  fortune  and  persever- 
ance ?     At  present,  we  can  only  be  certain  of  his  income. " 


303  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"Ah,  he's  a  clever  fellow.  Look  how  he  has  pulled 
his  Society  together — it  is  a  force  already.  He  tells  me 
that  fresh  men  are  joining  every  day.  You  must  admire 
his  enthusiasm." 

"He  stuck  at  no  lie  to  get  followers,  and  he  will  stick 
at  no  truth  to  keep  them  !  But  he  is  certain  to  get  a 
hideous  pommelling  before  long.  In  a  year  or  two,  the 
Bond  of  Association  will  have  but  one  feature  in  common 
with  earthly  greatness — it  will  have  fallen  !  " 

"That  is  nature's  course.  It  plainly  means  that  there 
never  can  be  a  Church  and  State  party  in  England." 

"So  long  as  the  State  is  administered  by  Christian  men, 
its  acts  will  be  Christian,"  said  Hartley  in  a  cheerful 
tone. 

"  But  are  they  Christian  men  .>'  " 

"  Well,  how  can  you  test  them  .?  " 

"Do  they  follow  the  truth  so  far  as  they  know  it  ?  do 
they  admit  and  accept  truths  higher  than  those  which 
they  may  have  received  in  the  first  instance  }  finally,  do 
they  die  loving  God  more  than  all  things  and  creatures  .'*  " 

"I  couldn't  answer  for  any  of  'em.  There  ain't  two 
Bishops  of  the  same  mind  and  if  you  ain't  in  with  the 
Bishops,  you  ain't  in  with  the  State — for  the  State  appoints 
them.  And  the  Government  is  sometimes  High  and  Tory, 
sometimes  Low  and  Whig.  I  wouldn't  trust  a  Tory  Broad 
Churchman  or  a  Tory  Rationalist,  and  I  wouldn't  put  my 
money  on  a  Whig  High  Churchman.  That's  confusion 
worse  confounded.  And  so,  on  simple  lines,  it  is  '  Here  we 
go  up-up-iip.  Here  we  go  down-do7vn-doiv7i '  ;  which  is  all 
very  well  as  a  game,  but  it's  a  fool  of  a  position  if  you 
happen  to  be  anxious  about  your  immortal  soul  and  want 
a  gun  to  stand  by  at  the  Judgment  !  " 

"Then  you  think  that  the  Anglicans  haven't  got  a 
gun .? 

"No,  they  have  only  got  livings.     And  yet  I  don't  know 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  303 

a  pleasanter  thing-  than  to  read  in  your  paper  of  a  morn- 
ing- that  some  nice,  good-hearted  curate — who  wants 
to  marry  your  sister — has  been  handsomely  preferred  ! 
That's  human  weakness  and  family  pride.  It's  scanda- 
lous and  you  pray  for  yourself.  But  you  go  to  the  wed- 
ding and  hope  that  the  bridegroom,  like  the  blessed  hea- 
then, is  a  law  unto  himself !  When  you  come  to  the 
great  questions,  however,  the  choice  has  to  be  made 
between  Nonconformity — the  genuine  Protestant — and 
Rome.  The  Dissenters  and  the  Romans  are  the  really 
religious-minded  among  us — they  have  to  suffer  for  their 
opinions.  One  is  thought  low-class  and  the  other,  cun- 
ning.* I  don't  suppose  that  Reckage  will  turn  Dissenter. 
But  if  he  has  a  spark  of  genius  in  him  he  will  go  over  to 
the  Catholics.  I  leave  honesty  out  of  the  question.  As  if 
any  man  who  respected  his  neighbor's  intelligence  could 
pretend  to  stomach  a  co7ige  d'elire  as  it  is  at  present  con- 
ducted in  the  Church  of  England.  Blasphemous  humbug- ! 
Yes,  Reckage  must  turn  Papist." 

He  glanced  at  Robert  as  he  spoke  for  it  was  thought 
that  the  Convert  still  exerted  a  certain  influence  over  his 
former  pupil. 

"Nothing  would  make  me  happier,"  answered  Orange, 
"  although  I  never  despair  at  the  obstinacy  of  the  Protes- 
tant and  the  comparative  fewness  of  our  numbers.  It  is 
God's  pleasure  that  heresy  should  seem  to  prevail  for  a 
season.  And  the  enemies  of  the  Church  are  astonished. 
Unable  to  understand  her  life,  they  prophesy  her  death. 
But  we  can  afford  to  be  patient.  There  is  eternity  before 
us  and  what  are  a  few  hundred  years  in  comparison  with 
the  infinite  and  everlasting?  " 

"  It  is  useful  to  hear  eternity  mentioned — for  there  is 
nothing  one  so  easily  forgets.  And  I  envy  anybody  who 
can  speak  of  God  as  though  He  were  as  really  alive  as  the 

*  It  must  be  remembered  thai  this  conversation  took  place  in  1869. 


304  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Prince  of  Wales  !  In  these  days  men  put  on  a  false  tone 
and  look  canting  hypocrites  whenever  they  refer  to  the 
Almighty.  I  do  myself.  I  can't  help  it.  How  do  you 
manage  it  so  naturally.?  But  your  chances  in  the  House 
will  be  clean  lost  if  it  once  gets  rumored  about  that  your 
opinions  have  a  touch  of  other-worldliness.  They  want 
serious  politicians  !  " 

"  And  what  are  they .?  " 

"Bumbles  and  Shallows — pompous  asses  full  of  self- 
conceit — fellows  that  never  look  higher  than  the  level 
of  mundane  necessities  !  They  subscribe  a  pew  rent  to 
God  and  consecrate  their  lives  to  furnaces  and  drains  and 
contracts  and  manure  !  They  succeed,  however,  and  peo- 
ple call  'em  useful  Public  servants — which  they  are.  But 
you  have  never  been  identified  with  any  great  idea  on 
ventilation  !  I  hear,  instead,  gorgeous  anecdotes  about 
your  goings-on  in  Spain.  That  won't  do  at  all.  I  swore 
they  were  all  lies.  Your  books  are  too  romantic  as  it  is 
— it  will  take  a  lot  of  bad  speeches  to  atone  for  'em.  Con- 
sider Dizzy.  He  won't  be  fully  appreciated  till  every  man- 
jack  of  this  generation  is  dead.  He's  too  brilliant — he 
makes  us  all  feel  very  dull  dogs  and  very  lame  ducks. 
And  he  isn't  an  Anglo-Saxon — another  crime.  To  be  sure, 
we  call  him  clever — infinitely  clever,  and  we  listen  to  his 
wit — as  we  watch  a  comedian — with  amusement,  w^hich, 
however,  we  should  be  sorry  to  derive  from  any  one  who 
had  better  claims  to  our  society  !  We  are  so  jealous  of  his 
statesmanship  that  we  wouldn't  even  govern  Europe  by 
his  influence.  Lord  !  how  he  must  despise  us  !  That  is 
why  I  like  him." 

"Which  do  you  think  will  be  the  urgent  subjects  next 
Session  } "  asked  Robert,  anxious  to  soothe  the  thoughts 
of  his  excitable  companion. 

"The»State  of  Ireland  and  the  Education  Bill,"  said 
Penborough,   "then,  if  there  is  time,  they  will  hammer  a 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  305 

bit  on  the  depression  of  trade.  Some  of  them  may  begin 
to  consider  the  Working  Man.  But  there  wont  be  many- 
opportunities  for  the  private  Member.  Have  you  any 
special  trump  to  play  ?  " 

"  I  am  thinking  of  Ireland  and  our  Foreign  Policy  and 
India — " 

"  That  will  do  to  begin  with,"  said  Hartley.  "  I  see 
you  have  a  little  ambition  left,  after  all  !  " 

Robert  blushed. 

"And  now,"  said  Penborough,  "you  can  do  me  a  kind- 
ness. Will  you  give  me  a  few  points  about  the  Archduke 
Charles  of  Alberia.?  You  must  have  met  him.  You 
have  met  everybody.  I  am  writing  an  article  on  his 
career. " 

"But  why?" 

"Because  he  is  dead  and  people  want  to  know  who 
he  was." 

' '  Dead  !  "  exclaimed  Robert,  who  was  fortunately  in  the 
shadow  where  Penborough  could  not  see  his  sudden 
change  of  countenance. 

"  Dead  of  heart-disease.  Haven't  you  seen  this  morn- 
ing's papers .''  " 

Orange,  who  had  been  too  troubled  to  read  the  papers 
that  day,  sat  stunned  at  Hartley's  piece  of  news. 

"I  say,"  said  Hartley,  aggrieved,  "you  ought  to  keep 
pace  with  the  Press.  The  Commons  are  strong  for  the 
moment,  but  in  fifty  years'  time  the  country  will  be 
in  the  hands  of  the  Lords  and  the  Journalists.  They 
will  settle  everything  between  them.  Bear  that  in 
mind.     The  House  will  be  as  obsolete  as  the  Tower !  " 

Robert's  thoughts  were  far  away  with  Henriette  Duboc 
at  Mirafiores  when  she  sat  there,  rosy  with  love,  in  the 
sunlight,  and  when  she  watched,  with  dying  eyes,  for  a 
last  glimpse  of  all  that  made  her  live.  And  he  remem- 
bered Brigit — Brigit  with  her  mother's  face  and  voice  and 


3o6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

her  father's  sombre  spirit — the  heiress  to  woe  and  passions, 
gayety  and  despair,  pride  and  humiliation.   .    .   . 

"It  is  too  strange  to  be  true,"  he  said,  "I  cannot 
beheve  it." 

Penborough  began  to  button  up  his  coat. 

"I  am  no  fool,"  said  he,  "and  I  repeat — the  House  of 
Commons  will  be,  before  the  end  of  the  next  century,  as 
obsolete  as  the  Tower." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  I  was  wondering  about 
the  Archduke." 

"To  be  sure.  Well — it's  a  slack  time  and  I  shall  give 
him  three-quarters  of  a  column.     But  it  must  be  racy.'' 

"  Dies  ircE,  dies  ilia, 
Solvet  strclmii  in  favilla. 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylla. 

"Judex  ergo  ciun  sedebit, 
Quidquid  latet,  apparebit ; 
Nil  inultum  remaiiebit. 

"  Quid  sum  miser  tunc  dicturus? 
Quern  patrotiuvi  rogaturus 
Cum  vix  Justus  sit  securus  ?  "  * 

"  What  are  you  muttering.''  "  said  Penborough. 
"My  part  of  the  Archduke's  obituary,"  said  Robert, 

*  Nigher  still  mid  still  more  iiigh 
Draws  the  day  of  prophecy 
Doomed  to  tnelt  the  earth  and  sky. 

Nonv  before  the  Judge  severe 
Hidden  things  tnust  all  appear  ; 
Nought  can  pass  unpunished  here. 

fV/uit  sfiall  guilty  I  then  plead  ? 

IVhofor  me  ■will  mtercede 

IVheti  the  saints  shall  cotn/ort  need  t 


THE  SCIIUOr.  FOR  SAINTS.  307 


chaptp:r  XXIII. 

Lord  Wight  owned,  in  the  Highlands,  a  small  Isle 
which  had  formed  part  of  his  mother's  dowry.  Here, 
near  the  ruin  of  an  old  fortress,  he  had  built  a  shooting 
lodge  where  it  was  his  custom  to  spend  the  Autumn  with 
such  friends  as  he  could  persuade  to  join  him  in  so  ex- 
posed and  desolate  a  region.*  He  could  offer  a  warm 
welcome,  good  grouse,  plenty  of  hares,  excellent  whisky 
and  spring  water,  but  the  coast  was  stormy,  wrecks  were 
not  infrequent,  and  the  guest,  once  landed,  could  not  fix 
his  day  of  departure  nor  hope  to  get  his  letters — or  de- 
spatch them — with  any  regularity.  More  than  all,  his 
lordship  in  spite — or  perhaps  because — of  his  wealth,  kept, 
in  that  district  where  town  delicacies  were  rare  and 
always  bad,  a  frugal  board.  He  himself  cared  only  for 
pastry — the  heavier  the  better — and  his  cook  was  a 
simple  old  woman  who  owned,  with  Christian  cheerful- 
ness, that  she  had  long  lost  her  sense  of  taste.  For  these 
reasons,  the  Earl's  parties  were  usually  composed  of  a 
few  fierce  sportsmen  without  domestic  ties,  who,  leaving 
luxuries  to  the  effeminate  and  large  retinues  for  the 
vulgar,  could  sleep  well  anywhere,  eat  thankfully  what- 
ever might  be  set  before  them,  shave  their  own  chins, 
clean  their  own  guns  and  prepare,  if  necessary,  their  own 
birds  for  roasting.      But  this  year  his  lordship  did  not  in- 

*The  Island  now  is  but  too  famous  for  its  views.  Steamers  pass  it  all  day  long.  It 
has  a  Post  Office,  a  Villa  or  so,  several  small  farms  and  a  population  of  one  hundred 
souls.  One  may  attend  the  fortnightly  sermon  at  the  school-house,  and  pic-nic  on  the  spot 
where  the  shooting  lodge  stood  in  1869.  It  was  pulled  down  after  the  Earl's  death  in 
obedience  to  a  clause  in  his  will. 


3o8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

vite  any  one  of  his  old  companions,  and  his  steward,  a 
man  of  many  anxieties,  was  astonished  to  hear  that 
foreign  visitors  of  high  rank  were  expected — Prince  Leit- 
neritz  of  Bohemia,  Prince  Czestochowa  of  Poland,  Don 
Pedro  de  la  Cerda,  Duke  of  Mastrana,  the  Marquis  de 
la  Suente,  the  Count  de  Lesmaissons  and  Colonel  de 
Bodava. 

"My  lord,"  said  the  steward,  "where  shall  we  put 
their  valets  and  suites?  " 

"They  will  leave  their  servants  at  home,"  said  the 
Earl,  "  for  they  travel  incognito  for  a  little  rest  and  pleasure. 
The  Duke  of  Mastrana,  however,  will  bring-  his  Chaplain 
who,  being  a  priest  and  a  minister  of  God,  must  be  shown 
every  attention  possible.  The  rest  can  shift  for  them- 
selves." 

"Very  good,  my  lord." 

"They  are  all  nobleman  of  such  birth  and  quality  that 
their  power  makes  their  titles — and  not  their  titles  their 
power.  If  their  lands  and  honors  were  confiscated  to- 
morrow, they  would  still  have  a  hand  in  the  fortunes  of 
Europe — for,  while  man  forgets,  history  and  the  fates 
remember.     Keep  that  in  your  mind,  Glencorbie," 

"Yes,  my  lord,"  said  the  steward,  who  was  wonder- 
ing what  the  foreigners  would  think  when  they  found, 
that,  although  Slatrach  Castle  had  a  brass  cannon  washed 
ashore  from  the  Armada,  it  did  not  possess  a  single  feather 
bed  nor  an  eider-down  quilt. 

"  It  will  be  a  privilege  to  see  such  gentlemen  in  the 
flesh.     They  belong  to  a  race  fast  diminishing." 

"Yes,  your  lordship.  And  what  will  they  eat  and 
drink }  " 

"  Bless  me  !  wdiat  an  absurd  question.  They  will  drink 
the  wine  of  the  country,  and  then  there  are  the  birds,  and 
hares,  and  rabbit  pie  and  one  thing  and  another.  But 
you  may  order  some  hams. " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  309 

"Yes,  my  lord.     And  what  will  they  do?  " 

"  Do  ?  They  will  hope  to  get  some  shooting.  Do  you 
suppose  they  want  to  spend  their  time  knocking  ivory 
balls  around  a  table  or  driving  long  hours  through  vile 
roads  to  look  at  tattered  tapestry  ?  " 

"  You  know  best,  my  lord.  So  long  as  I  give  satisfac- 
tion and  do  my  duty,  it's  all  one  to  me  what  happens." 

Orange,  on  returning  from  the  Capitol  Club,  joined 
Lord  Wight  in  time  to  catch  the  last  words  of  the  above 
conversation  and  see  Glencorbie,  with  a  preoccupied  air, 
bow  himself  out  in  order  to  resume  his  preparations  for 
the  journey  that  evening  to  the  North. 

The  Earl,  on  his  Secretary's  entrance,  opened  a  note- 
book and  begged  to  be  told  how  to  spell  "Glencorbie  is 
a  blockhead"  in  Spanish.  "  For  he  reads  all  my  letters 
and  memoranda,"  said  the  kind-hearted  gentleman,  "and 
I  would  not  have  him  come  across  a  line  that  might 
wound  his  feelings.  But  really  he  is  a  fool.  When  one 
is  fatigued  with  shooting  or  missing  grouse,  one  finds 
whisky  very  palatable,  and  I  have  tasted  rabbits  at  Slat- 
rach  which,  in  taste,  were  beyond  a  partridge  for  delicacy. 
The  canaille  do  not  know  what  good  eating  means.  But 
what  is  the  matter?     You  seem  very  distrait." 

"I  have  heard  some  disquieting  news.  The  Archduke 
Charles  is  dead." 

"Is  it  possible  !  That's  most  unfortunate — for  he  had 
one  thumb  on  a  new  leaf,  and,  blessed  be  God,  I  believe 
he  would  have  turned  it — although  he  was  a  bad  Prince 
and  no  one  could  pretend  the  contrary.  I  think  '  speak 
only  good  of  the  dead '  is  a  silly  maxim.  I  had  rather 
speak  ill  of  the  dead  than  of  the  living.  But  how  will 
this  loss  affect  Don  Carlos  ?     Badly,  I  fear." 

"No  doubt.  It  even  affects  my  own  plans  to  a  certain 
extent.  I  cannot  start  for  Slatrach  to-night,  I  must  go  to 
Catesby  first. " 


3IO  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"The  lady  is  ill.     You  won't  be  able  to  see  her." 

"I  can  see  Lady  Fitz  Rewes.  The  Archduke's  death 
will  touch  Mrs.  Parflete's  prospects  materially." 

He  had  never  told  Lord  Wight  the  history  of  Brigit's  par- 
entaofe.  The  Earl  was  not  a  man  to  be  trusted  with  a 
secret  of  that  kind.  He  did  know,  however,  that  Parflete 
had  held  some  confidential  position  at  the  Alberian  Court, 
and  so,  after  a  certain  amount  of  grumbling,  he  resolved 
to  postpone  his  own  departure  for  two  days  rather  than 
be  deprived  of  his  Secretary's  company  on  the  tedious  way 
to  Scotland. 

Orange  left  London  for  Catesby  by  the  earliest  train  the 
next  morning,  and,  at  this  point,  the  story  is  best  told  by 
his  own  narrative.* 

September,  1869. 

It  was  my  first  visit  to  Catesby.  I  sent  a  telegram  to  Lady 
Fitz  Rewes  warning  her  of  my  intended  call.  Her  carriage 
was  waiting  for  me  at  the  station.  There  were  few  passengers, 
and  I  was  particularly  struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  man  not 
much  above  the  middle  height,  with  high  cheek-bones,  an  olive 
complexion,  and  tranquil  black  eyes.  The  strange  feature  was 
his  white,  abundant  hair  which  was  as  fine  as  a  woman's,  and 
formed  a  most  distinguished  setting  for  a  countenance  which 
had  otherwise  nothing  really  remarkable  except  its  sadness.  He 
looked  a  foreigner  and  his  presence  in  that  neighborhood  at 
that  time  roused  my  suspicions.  I  had  been  searching  my  con- 
science in  the  train  to  find  whether  my  sudden  journey  to  Cates- 
by was  due  to  a  prudent  or  a  merely  selfish  motive.  The  sight 
of  this  stranger  cleared  my  doubts,  and  I  felt  that  I  had  acted 
wisely  in  coming.  To  my  astonishment  he  asked  the  guard — 
in  fluent  English,  yet  with  a  strong  foreign  accent — whether  it 
was  a  great  distance  to  Lady  Fitz  Rewes's  residence.  The 
groom,  on  hearing  his  mistress's  name,  stepped  forward  and 
touched  his  cap.  A  moment  later,  I  found  the  gentleman  seated 
opposite  me  in  the  waggonette,  driving  toward  the  Hall.  His 
expression  was  neither  sinister  nor  ingratiating,  but  wholly 
impenetrable.  His  clothes,  though  plain,  were  of  good  ma- 
terial :  his  hands  and  feet  showed  no  common  breed.  His 
manner   was    perfectly  collected  but  his  temperament  seemed 

*  Written,  it  is  believed,  for  Mr.  Disraeli. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  311 

suited  rather  to  the  transaction  of  affairs  than  the  observance  of 
ceremonies.  1  decided  that  he  was  one  of  those  men  who  are 
constantly  employed  on  diplomatic  and  difficult  missions  be- 
cause they  are  of  so  little  importance  to  the  great  world  that 
their  successes  need  not  be  openly  rewarded  nor  their  failures 
publicly  made  known.  This  surmise  afterwards  proved  correct. 
1  learned  later  that  he  was  Lucas  Mudara,  the  Archduke's  agent 
at  Madrid. 

As  we  drove  along,  we  exchanged  a  few  words  about  the 
weather  and  the  place. 

Catesby  harbor  stands  in  a  fine  bay  which,  that  day,  was 
bright  with  yachts — their  flags  flying,  their  crews — mostly  in 
white  or  blue  jerseys  and  red  caps,  loitering  about  the  quay. 
Catesby  town  is  three  miles  or  so  beyond  the  pier,  and, 
sheltered  by  high  Downs,  it  is  a  little  too  well  protected  from 
the  wind.  The  Hall  stands  at  the  foot  o(  a  green  rounded  hill, 
sloping  up  from  the  sea  where  the  beach,  bleak  and  rocky, 
makes,  at  low  tide,  a  ragged  boundary  of  the  estate.  The 
house,  which  was  once  a  Monastery,  has  no  architectural 
beauty.  It  is  approached  by  a  long  drive  that  follows  the 
coast  line,  and,  while  there  is  at  intervals  a  piece  of  pasture- 
land  or  a  hay-field  between  the  water  and  the  road,  the  trees  are 
on  one  side  only  and  the  house  is  never  hid  from  sight.  It  is  a 
long  low  building  with  a  stout  oak  door  in  the  middle,  and,  for 
its  size,  few  windows.  But  it  is  covered  with  vines  and  it  has  a 
curious  garden  of  blue  hortensias  on  its  flat  roof.  A  number  of 
parrots  and  cockatoos  also  are  kept  there — tied  to  their  silvered 
perches  by  light  chains.  The  effect  is  startling  and  too  fan- 
tastic, but  it  redeems  the  house  from  an  austerity  over  severe  for 
any  dwelling  not  used  as  a  place  ot  repentance  and  mortifica- 
tion. When  our  carriage  was  some  three  hundred  yards  from 
the  entrance,  the  groom  jumped  down  and  asked  us  if  we  would 
kindly  walk  the  rest  of  the  way  as  there  was  a  visitor  ill  in  the 
house,  and  it  was  feared  that  the  sound  of  wheels  on  the  ground 
would  disturb  her.  I  glanced  at  my  companion  to  see  whether 
this  news  came  as  a  surprise.  He  murmured  some  polite  words 
of  regret,  but  his  expression  was  like  the  waters  of  Lora  at  high 
tide.  One  could  not  believe,  that,  under  so  calm  a  sheet,  there 
were  whirlpools,  swift  falls,  sharp  rocks  and  a  current  fiercer 
than  the  Furies.  But  presently  I  caught  him  watching  me  from 
the  corners  of  his  eyes.     I  determined  to  take  a  straight  course. 

"  Pardon  the  question,"  said  I,  "  but  have  I  the  pleasure  of 
addressing  a  Castilian  ?  "  Where  I  felt  in  such  doubt  of  his 
nationality,  I  thought  it  well  to  let  my  guess  err  on  the  side  of 
flattery. 


312  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

He  seemed  rather  pleased  than  annoyed  by  the  remark,  but, 
to  my  astonishment,  he  said,  speakmg  with  an  extraordinary 
rapidity  in  perfect  Spanish, — "  I  am  glad  to  find  that  my  birth- 
right is  so  distinct.  I  hate  your  Cosmopolitan  who  is  usually 
proud  of  every  country  except  his  own,  and  that  he  avoids — lest 
he  should  be  called  on  to  defend  it." 

"  Spaniards,  at  any  rate,  have  opportunities  now  to  show 
their  patriotism." 

"  Alas,  yes  !  Misery  must  come  to  many  '  that  the  nations 
may  know  themselves  to  be  but  men.'  " 

"  Do  you  take  a  gloomy  view  of  the  situation  ?  " 

"  The  gloomiest.  We  have  sold  our  souls  for  swords.  And 
the  swords  are  filthy.  They  poison  the  wound  and  the  hand  that 
inflicts  it.     We  are  a    ruined  people,  and  Spain  must  perish." 

"You  must  have  the  courage  of  the  past.  When  Anaxarchus 
was  being  beaten  to  death,  he  said,  '  Pound  on.  You  can 
pound  the  sheath  of  Anaxarchus,  himself  you  cannot  pound." 
Nothing  can  destroy  the  spirit  of  Spain.  Do  you  not  feel  what 
an  injury  you  are  doing  to  the  Church,  our  Mother,  by  your 
predictions  ?  " 

I  said  this  purposely  in  order  to  discover  to  which  party  he 
belonged. 

"The  Church,"  said  he,  "is  at  once  perfect  light  and  utter 
darkness.  She  is  like  that  miraculous  cloud  which  guided  the 
children  of  Israel,  and,  at  the  same  time,  blinded  their  enemies." 

This  was  a  fine  saying  and  true,  but  I  saw  that  he  meant  it 
half  in  irony  and  I  knew  then  what  to  expect. 

"The  revolutionary  party  must  inevitably  come  to  destruc- 
tion," said  I  ;  "  elections  by  the  sword  are  dangerous.  They 
never  endure.  The  military  elections  of  the  Roman  Emperors 
and  in  other  nations  proved  fatal  to  the  public  peace  and  liberty. 
Every  bad  end  may  be  referred  to  a  bad  beginning.  Men  who 
fight — pro  arts  ei focis — for  religion,  freedom,  wives  and  lands 
are  full  of  courage.  But  godless,  homeless,  mercenary  vaga- 
bonds— whose  trade  is  blood — have  no  just  cause  and  therefore 
no  mettle.  '  There  is  no  king  saved  by  the  multitude  of  an 
host.'     There  must  be  some  soul  of  goodness  among  his  legions." 

"  That  is  our  unhappy  position,"  said  he.  "The  Revolution 
in  Spain  is  between  the  army  and  the  people  armed.  It  is  now 
a  year  ago  since  the  two  combined  to  drag  Isabella's  bust  in  the 
mud.  The  Bourbons  were  declared  to  have  forever  forfeited 
the  throne,  but  there  was  not  an  evil  done  under  the  Bourbons 
which  has  not  increased  a  hundred-fold  since  the  rebels  have 
come  to  misrule.  Where  there  may  have  been  a  passing  sick- 
ness there  is  now  mortal  disease,  disease  in  the  Church,  in  civil 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  313 

society,  in  the  army,  in  the  whole  nation.  Thousands  of  good 
citizens  and  poor  priests  are  emigrating  to  Biarritz  and 
Bayonne,  to  St.  Jean  de  Luz  and  to  the  frontier.  God  i<nows 
how  they  will  all  live  1  But  their  native  land  is  no  longer  a 
home  for  honorable  creatures,  and  yet  I  cannot  forget  how  short 
a  time  has  passed  since  my  country  was  the  greatest  Power  in 
Europe." 

The  speech  was  uttered  with  a  feeling  certainly  not  feigned. 
I  felt  the  truth  of  every  word.  Nevertheless,  I  could  not  decide 
to  my  satisfaction  whetlier  he  was,  in   his  sympathies,  a  Carlist. 

"  Nothing  is  done  without  the  Law  of  Providence,"  said  I, 
"and  when  things  seem  to  fall  out  contrary  to  justice,  they 
finish,  notwithstanding,  for  the  greater  glory  of  God.  That  is 
why  it  is  right  to  say  always — Fiat  voluntas  tua  in  ca'lo,  et  in 
terra.     It  is  mockery  to  pray  thus  and  nourish  a  secret  revolt." 

"You  are  a  young  man,"  said  he,  "and  perhaps  you  are 
happy  to-day.  But  I  agree  with  you,  althougli  I  have  waited 
longer  for  the  millennium  !  I  think,  too,  that  one  should  main- 
tain unity  of  religion — being  of  Plutarch's  opinion,  that  vari- 
etas  religionis,  dissolutio  religionis.  Religion,  however,  should 
keep  on  her  rock,  and  not  wander  forth  into  the  council-chamber 
and  the  market-place." 

"  In  fact,"  said  I,  "  you  want  liberty  not  of  worship  but  of 
conscience.  Let  Church  provide  the  Ritual  and  any  devil  the 
sentiment  that  you  take  to  it  !  In  other  words,  every  man  may 
permit  her  ceremonies  on  his  own  terms.  But  a  power  that  de- 
pends on  its  subjects  is  not  a  power  at  all,  it  is  a  servitude. 
Saint  Louis  of  France  showed  his  army  that  he  could  fight  his 
own  battles,  and  thus  he  won  respect  from  foe  and  follower  alike. 
Shall  the  Church  be  less  than  her  own  saints  ?  " 

A  sort  of  pallor  showed  under  his  olive  skin,  as  though  a  mist 
had  crept  over  his  blood.     But  his  reply  betrayed  no  resentment. 

"You  are  zealous,"  said  he,  "and,  for  an  Anglo-Saxon,  you 
show  a  great  mterest  in  foreign  affairs." 

"There  is  French  blood  in  our  family." 

"  Ah  I  I  have  observed  that  the  English  take  great  pride  in 
a  Norman  descent.  Yet  England  played  a  filial  part  in  the 
Netherlands  while  Marie  Antomette  was  in  hourly  expectation 
of  the  guillotine  ?  Your  Government  pretended,  indeed,  to  assist 
the  Allies  in  restoring  the  Monarchy.  She  meant  to  pay  herself 
handsomely  for  the  trouble,  however,  by  taking  the  lion's  share 
of  the  French  conquests,  and  dividing  the  noble  kingdom  into 
parcels  !  But  that  meanness  was  paid  for  at  Austerlitz.  Aus- 
terlitz  is  written  on  Pitt's  heart  in  letters  of  eternal  fire." 

He  paused  and  spat  upon  the  ground. 


314  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  You  will  not  find  that  there  were  many  old  Norman  families 
on  the  side  of  Mr.  Pitt  !  But  my  father  was  French,"  said  I, 
not  choosing  to  make  any  fuller  comment  on  the  chapter  of  his- 
tory to  which  he  had  referred. 

"  A  Bonapartist  ?" 

"  Never." 

"And  what,  pray,  would  he  have  thought  of  my  poor  country 
— her  empire  in  tatters,  her  credit  a  jest  !  " 

"  He  would  remember  the  Prophet,  and  say,  'The  multitude 
of  all  the  nations  that  figlit  against  Ariel,  even  all  that  fight 
against  her  and  her  stronghold,  and  that  distress  her,  shall  be  as 
a  dream,  a  vision  of  the  night.'  " 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears.  I  saw  him  strike  his  breast  and 
heard  him  murmur,  "Hei  mihi,  Doniine,  quia  peccavi irimis  in 
vita  mea.  Quid  faciain  miser,  iibi  fugiam,  nisi  ad  te  Deits 
tneus  ?  " 

Unconsciously  he  gave  these  words  that  peculiar  clerical  in- 
tonation which  no  layman,  in  reciting  prayers  or  psalms,  can 
acquire  or  effect.  I  controlled  my  astonishment  and  looked  away 
from  him.  When  he  next  spoke,  it  was  in  his  ordinary  voice — 
guttural,  but  well-modulated. 

"  So  you  are  not  an  Anglo-Sa.xon  ?  Thank  God  !  It  was  said 
of  Richelieu  that  the  priest  concealed  the  cavalier.  In  your  case, 
the  cavalier  conceals  the  priest  I  " 

He  bowed  gravely.  He  gave  me  to  understand  that  he  meant 
to  convey  an  innocent,  if  high-flown  compliment.  But  I  felt 
tolerably  certain,  that,  in  some  way,  he  knew  the  story  ot  my 
birth  and  my  whole  history.  On  the  other  hand,  his  remark 
might  have  been  purely  accidental.  While  the  doubt  was  possi- 
ble, I  could  take  no  stand.      I  kept  silent. 

"  The  Emperor  of  France  has  been  ill,"  he  said,  suddenly,  as 
though  he  wished  to  change  the  subject  ;  "  and  he  is  a  long  time 
getting  well.  The  Empress  Eugenie,  with  her  son,  is  visiting 
the  room  in  Ajaccio  where  Letitia  Ramolino  gave  birth  to  the 
first  Napoleon  !  Signs  of  the  times,  indeed.  But  a  year  ago, 
General  Prim  was  a  proscribed  Spanish  patriot,  driven  from 
France  and  Belgium.  Now  he  is  going  to  Vichy  for  his  healtli 
— attended  as  a  king  in  state  is  attended.  Sick  Prim  and  the 
sicker  Emperor  will  have  a  little  conference  about  Cuba.  Cuba 
is  all  but  lost  to  us  already.  And  what  will  become  of  our 
Spanish  emigrants  under  a  Foreign  Government  ?  Shall  we 
abandon  them  to  suffer  as  the  Irish  and  the  Hmdoo  ?  Never — 
while  there  is  one  thread  of  honor  still  running  through  our  flag. 
'  Death  has  come  up  into  our  windows,'  but  not  yet  shame. 
The  people — "  he  checked  himself,  then  turned  upon  me  with  a 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  315 

face  distorted  by  passion—"  What  do  young  men  of  family  care 
about  the  people  ?  You  talk  about  God,  King-  and  country — 
you  tight  well  and  spare  neither  your  bones  nor  your  blood.  But 
your  devotion  is  for  the  shepherds  and  the  pasture-land — the 
poor  sheep  may  perish." 

"  The  poor  sheep  have  grown  into  wolves  since  the  Reforma- 
tion," said  I.  "They  have  been  trained  to  look  upon  the  asser- 
tion of  a  divine  right  as  the  last  insult  which  a  monarch  may  offer 
his  subjects.  That  a  king  should  presume  to  govern  is  insolence 
not  to  be  tolerated.  He  is  a  State  Doll  to  be  brought  out  and 
laid  away  at  the  pleasure  of  his  humble  Ministers  !  And  with 
all  this  what  have  the  people  done  for  themselves  ?  Have  they 
ever  enjoyed  more  comforts,  straighter  opportunities  of  advance- 
ment, or  safer  protection  than  they  did  under  the  old  Feudal 
System  ?  But  in  those  days  this  last  false  worship  of  Humanity 
was  unknown.  Men  now  have  neither  gods  nor  kings  nor  idols. 
They  have  sunk  lower  than  the  heathen — for  the  heathen  has 
never  yet  bowed  down  in  adoration  before  his  own  individuality. 
He  chose  something  which  at  least  seemed  to  him  more  power- 
ful than  himself.  Prayer  has  been  recently  defined  as  a  reference 
to  one"  s  higJier  self!  But  one's  '  higher  self '  is  the  soul,  and 
the  soul  belongs  to  God — and  a  man  must  save  his  soul  because 
God  will  call  him  to  account  for  it.  Individuality  is  the  new 
soft  name  for  our  secret  sins." 

I  spoke  warmly  and  perhaps  it  was  as  well  that  we  had  reached, 
by  this  time,  the  old  Monastery  door  which,  made  in  the  twelfth 
century,  showed  the  marks  of  many  a  wild  assault.  Before  we 
could  ring  the  bell,  the  bolt  was  drawn  and  a  tootman,  whose 
face  was  familiar  to  me  from  my  many  calls  and  dinners  at 
Curzon  Street,  let  me  in.  The  elderly  butler  who  stood  near  him 
waiting  to  announce  us  smiled  a  benediction  as  he  always  did 
on  his  mistress's  friends.  But  he  cast  a  dubious  glance  at  the 
Spaniard  and  asked  him  with  grim  respect  whether  he  came 
with  me  and  what  was  his  name.  To  the  first  question,  Mudara 
made  no  reply.  As  an  answer  to  the  second,  he  gave  him  a 
card.  Old  Clayton,  whose  presence  of  mind  deserved  great 
credit,  asked  us  to  rest  a  moment.  He  went  into  the  great  hall 
— (we  were  standing  in  the  vestibule  without)  —  and  presently 
returned.  He  conducted  Sefior  Mudara  to  the  drawing-room. 
As  the  two  turned  the  corner.  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  h^self — dressed 
in  flowered  muslin — came  out  from  the  hall  on  tiptoe,  put  her 
finger  to  her  lips,  and  gave  me  her  right  hand  which  I  kissed  as 
usual.  It  was  a  very  pretty  hand.  I  read  displeasure  in  her 
eyes,  however,  and  I  remembered  that  she  must  have  received 
that  morning  my  letter  of  the  day  before.     I  was  ashamed  of  it 


3i6  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

the  moment  I  saw  her  face,  which  was  flushed,  and  younger 
than  it  had  ever  yet  seemed  to  me.  She  did  not  speal<  till  we 
had  crossed  the  long,  imposing  salle,  hung  with  magnificent 
Gobelins,  but  rather  gloomy — and  entered  a  small,  sunny  room, 
furnished  in  the  modern  taste,  with  quantities  of  china  and  chintz 
and  familiar  miniatures. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?  "  said  she  at  once,  "  his  name  is  unknown 
to  me.  Here  is  his  card — Lucas  Mudara.  There  are  no  coro- 
nets or  things  on  it.     He  must  be  Brigit's  man  of  business." 

As  she  mentioned  the  word  Brigit,  she  threw  me  a  switt, 
rather  icy  glance. 

"  That  unhappy  child's  condition  is  deplorable,"  she  continued. 
"When  she  received  the  news  of  her  husband's  death,  she  went 
straight  out  into  the  old  chapel,  but  neither  then  nor  since  has 
she  been  seen  to  shed  one  tear.  She  seems  in  a  stupor.  All 
day  long  she  is  there  among  the  graves,  with  her  head  resting 
on  her  hand  and  her  lips  closed,  as  white  and  silent  as  a  stone 
monument." 

She  paused  in  order  to  give  me  the  opportunity  to  ask  some 
question.  But  I  could  say  nothing.  The  picture  and  the  suffer- 
ing she  described  had  robbed  me  of  the  power  of  speech.  There 
was  never  a  time  in  my  life  when  I  less  saw  my  way  before  me 
than  at  that  moment — when  I  felt  with  such  confusion  the  in- 
adequacy, and  also  the  danger,  of  words.  Lady  Fitz  Rewes 
proceeded, — 

"  I  believe  very  great  caution  is  necessary.  This  is  no 
common  illness  and  our  hope  must  be  in  earnest  prayer.  Brigit 
has  been  obedient  always,  conquering  her  natural  wishes  at 
every  step.  Surely  none  of  us  will  ever  lose  any  grace  with 
God  from  having  submitted  our  own  wills  to  that  of  our  super- 
iors in  authority.  I  cannot  believe  it.  She  will  be  given  some 
measure  of  earthly  happiness  yet.  It  is  not  in  the  next  world 
only  that  goodness  is  rewarded." 

1  dared  not  ask  her  to  explain  herself  more  clearly.  Her 
look  and  her  trembling  tone  left  no  room  for  any  doubt  of  her 
unutterable  fear. 

"  It  is  hard  to  say  sometimes  for  what  we  mourn,"  she  con- 
tinued, "  but  a  heart  broken  by  grief  cannot  be  calm.  So  I  do 
not  think  that  her  melancholy  is  wholly  due  to  sorrow.  I  think 
it  is  some  otheff  feeling — a  horror  of  life,  a  weariness  of  its  folly, 
a  desire  to  see  an  end  of  disappointments  and  all." 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  broke  down  and  wept  as  I  had 
never  seen  any  woman  weep  before.  I  would  not  have  believed., 
from  mere  hearsay,  that  so  fragile  a  creature  was  capable  of  so 
niuch  passion.     Her  very  soul  seemed  to   be  dissolved   in  tears. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  317 

I  knew  the  kindness  of  her  nature,  yet  I  was  astonished  to  see 
her  so  utterly  overwhelmed  by  the  thought  of  another's  misfort- 
unes. She  was  not  without  her  faults,  but,  from  that  hour,  I 
forgot  them  all.* 

"  Dearest  Pens6e,"said  I — (for  she  seemed  to  me,  as  "the  wings 
of  a  dove  covered  with  silver,  and  her  feathers  with  yellow  gold,") 
— "  there  is  no  one  like  you.  You  are  the  best  and  truest  of 
friends.  Do  not  cry.  My  task  is  already  hard  enough.  I  have 
more  news  to  tell,  but  it  must  be  our  secret  till  Madame  is 
stronger.     The  Archduke  Charles  is  dead." 

The  sentence  had  barely  passed  my  lips  when  I  saw  a  shadow 
on  the  lawn  outside  the  open  window.  I  hurried  forward  and 
looked  out.  It  belonged  to  Mudara  who  was  standing  there, 
well  within  earshot,  in  perfect  tranquillity,  apparently  watching 
an  immense  flock  of  sea-gulls  which  had  gathered  in  hundreds 
on  the  wide  beach  below.  I  myself  was  fascinated  by  the  un- 
usual sight.  Some  were  pluming  themselves  in  the  pools  left  by 
the  out-going  tide  :  others  were  warming  their  breasts  in  the 
sand,  and  seemed  to  be  asleep — secure  in  the  thought  that  six 
patrols,  each  flying  in  a  radius  from  the  centre  of  repose,  were 
keeping  watch  in  the  air  above  them,  ready  to  give  the  signals 
of  distress  at  the  flrst  approach  of  an  enemy.  I  know  not  why, 
but  the  scene  struck  me  almost  as  a  miraculous  vision.  My 
heart  grew  lighter,  and  my  thirsty  faith  received  a  fresh  draught 
of  hope.  I  rubbed  my  eyes — the  gulls  did  not  vanish.  Then  I 
looked  again  at  Mudara.  He  must  have  heard  every  word  of 
my  conversation  with  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  but  he  showed  no  em- 
barrassment on  being  discovered  an  eavesdropper.  On  the 
contrary,  he  smiled,  came  nearer,  and,  with  the  easiest  air  in 
the  world,  looked  over  my  shoulder  at  Pens^e. 

"  I  walked  round  from  the  saloti,"  said  he,  "  the  open  window 
and  the  garden  were  irresistible.  '  I  had  no  intention  of  intrud- 
ing.    Madame  la  vicomtesse  will  pardon  me  ?  " 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  at  the  first  sound  of  his  step,  regained  her 
composure,  but,  with  that  simplicity  which  belongs  to  a  really 
proud  nature,  she  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  her  former  agita- 
tion. She  dried  her  eyes  and  wet  cheeks  at  her  leisure,  then 
stood  up,  and,  disregarding  Mudara's  apology,  asked  him  his 
business. 

"  Your  name  conveys  no  idea  to  me,"  she  added. 

•'  There  is  no  reason  why  it  should,  Madame,"  said  he  ;  "  my 
business  is  with  Mrs.  Parflete." 

*  Orange  does  not  seem  to  have  suspected  that  there  may  have  been 
more  causes  than  one  for  Lady  Fitz  Revves's  deep  emotion. 


3i8  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

She  made  me  a  slight  sign  and  I  allowed  him  to  pass  into  the 
room. 

"  Mrs.  Parflete  is  too  ill  to  receive  visitors,"  said  Pens^e. 

"No  doubt.  She  has  had  to  suffer  a  great  loss  in  the  death 
of  her  husband,  but  broken  hearts  often  find  much  consolation 
in  the  pity  which  they  inspire." 

He  bowed  with  profound  respect,  and  was  careful  not  to  lift 
his  eyes  again  to  her  disfigured  face.  His  remark,  in  the  cir- 
cumstances, showed  considerable  tact.  It  induced  her  to  treat 
him  less  severely — for  by  justifying  her  tears  he  had  relieved 
her  at  once  from  the  strain  of  an  inexplicable  and  painful  situa- 
tion. She  blushed  a  little,  and,  motioning  him  for  the  first  time 
to  a  seat,  said  that  if  he  preferred  to  talk  in  Spanish — although 
his  English  was  perfect — I  could  act  as  an  interpreter.  (She 
referred  to  me  as  M.  de  Haus^e.)  To  my  surprise,  he  fell  in 
with  the  suggestion,  which  she  had  made  simply  as  a  means  of 
including  me  in  the  conversation.  He  turned  to  me  at  once 
and  had  the  audacity  to  observe  in  his  good,  but  very  rapid 
Castilian, — 

"  M.  de  Haus6e,  I  have  had  the  honor  of  meeting,  in  times 
past,  many  members  of  your  distinguished  family.  This  is  a 
good  and  charming  lady.  But  her  habits  ot  thought  are  child- 
ish. If  you  have  any  friendship  for  Madame  the  half-sister 
of  His  Imperial  Highness,  the  present  Archduke  Albert  of 
Alberia,  you  will  do  all  that  you  can  to  help  me  in  my  mission. 
I  was  the  private  agent  of  the  late  Archduke  Charles.  His 
daughter  knows  me  well.  I  am  her  trustee.  It  is  imperative  that 
I  should  see  her.  My  cause  is  that  of  God  and  the  Archduchess. 
If  the  Archduchess  fail — I  trust  in  God,  and  on  Him  I  must 
wholly  depend  unless  you  aid  me." 

Now  it  had  seemed  to  me,  that,  as  a  politician,  he  belonged 
to  that  vast  impotent  crowd  of  educated  beings  who,  while  they 
sympathize  with  the  Cause  of  God  as  opposed  to  other  causes, 
do,  on  their  own  part,  nothing  to  help  it.  But,  in  spite  of  his  alter- 
nate shifts  of  mood,  I  could  not  suspect  him  of  absolute  treach- 
ery. He  was  no  doubt  an  instrument  in  some  intrigue,  but  to  err 
in  over-much  suspecting  is  the  easiest  made  and  hardest  meniled 
of  all  mistakes.  I  had  no  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Parflete's  affairs. 
I  feared  that  Parflete  had  spent  the  greater  part  of  her  fortune, 
and  it  seemed  but  too  probable  that  her  father's  sudden  death 
would  leave  her  in  an  unstable — it  not  precarious — situation, 
Parflete,  on  his  honeymoon,  had  boasted  of  his  wife's  jewels, 
which  she  had  inherited  from  her  mother,  and  which,  from  his 
account,  were  of  great  value — some,  unquestionably,  being  heir- 
looms in    the  Imperial  family.     He    mentioned,    among  other 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  319 

things,  a  famous  emerald  which  had  belonged  to  the  great  Em- 
press Maria-Teresa.  I  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Parflete  in  full- 
dress,  and  I  could  not  say,  therefore,  whether  she  still  possessed 
these  ornaments.  In  any  case,  she  did  not  seem  to  care  greatly 
for  things  of  the  kind.  But,  so  far  as  her  worldly  comfort  went, 
they  were  of  the  highest  importance.  1  felt  that  Mudara  had 
matters  of  real  moment  to  communicate,  and,  acting  out  my 
part  of  interpreter,  I  repeated  the  substance  of  his  appeal,  to- 
gether with  further  entreaties  on  my  own  part,  I  knew  that 
the  demands  of  business  are,  so  far  from  a  penalty,  a  godsend 
in  times  when  the  mind  is  over-charged  with  emotion  and  wholly 
at  the  mercy  of  every  sentimental  caprice  or  morbid  impulse. 
I  urged  the  point  with  such  persistence  that  Pens^e,  after  an 
hour  of  wavering  in  her  usual  manner,  finally  agreed  to  co-oper- 
ate in  a  plan  which  Mudara  himself  proposed.  It  was  this. 
Lady  Fitz  Rewes  should  first  invite  ^Madame  to  walk  a  little  in 
her  favourite  haunt — the  chapel.  Then  she  might  be  induced 
to  rest  for  a  short  time  in  the  boudoir  where  we  were  then  sit- 
ting. That  would  be  a  f.uorable  moment  to  show  her  Mudara's 
card  and  ask  her  to  receive  him. 

"She  would  never  do  it,"  said  Pensee,  at  first  :  "she  has  re- 
fused to  see  every  one  and  she  is  too  ill  to  talk." 

"  I  know  Madame,"  answered  the  Spaniard,  in  English  "  she 
would  not  hesitate — she  would  grant  me  an  audience  at  once. 
It  is  one  of  the  noblest  intellects  in  Europe.  Weak  natures  are 
always  firm  when  it  is  to  their  palpable  advantage  to  show  a 
little  pliancy.  But  the  strong  soul  knows  when  to  yield. 
Madame  is  never  unalterable  at  the  wrong  moment." 

"I  will  do  my  best,"  said  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  who  then  rose 
and  left  us,  promising  to  send  us  word  ifher  attempts  at  persua- 
sion proved  successful. 

"  It  will  be  my  painful  duty,"  said  Mudara,  when  she  had 
gone,  "to  inform  the  Archduchess  of  her  father's  death." 

"  I  had  hoped,"  said  1,  "  that  this  news  might  have  been  with- 
held for  the  present." 

For  a  moment  he  said  nothing.  Then  he  made  an  effort — 
not  to  reply,  but  to  interrogate, — 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  loss  will  cause  her  much  grief  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Can  you  suppose  that  she  lacks  natural 
feelings  ? " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Mudara.  "Indeed,  I  always  assume 
that  she  has  every  human  attribute — in  its  virtuous  extreme, 
be  it  understood.  Therefore  she  is  honorably  ambitious.  She 
is  the  grand-daughter  of  an  Emperor." 

"  That  would  be  the  last  consideration  to  enter  her  mind." 


320  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  The  problems  which  time  has  ripened  and  which  the  future 
evokes  demand  a  bold  solution,"  he  replied.  "  Her  Imperial 
Highness  must  realize  the  duties  of  her  station."  * 

I  concealed  my  amazement,  and,  seeming  to  disregard  these 
strange  observations,  I  asked  him  whether  he  could  give  me  any 
further  details — than  those  already  received  through  Baron 
Zeuill  and  Lord  Soham — ot  Parflete's  suicide.  He  replied  that 
he  could  not.  I  expressed,  without  paraphrase,  my  conviction 
that  the  man  still  lived.  He  said  that  nothing  was  impossible  in 
the  case  of  such  a  scoundrel — that  he  himself  (Mudara)  had 
found  the  suicide  story  hard  of  digestion.  "  But,"  he  added, 
with  ingenuousness,  "  we  cannot  get  away  from  the  proofs. 
They  are  conclusive.  They  would  satisfy  any  Court  of  Justice 
in  the  world.  He  has  made  his  death  so  clear,  that,  if  he  should 
wish  to  come  to  life  again,  he  would  experience  much  difficulty 
in  establishing  his  identity  !  We  have  nothing  to  fear  one  way 
or  the  other." 

"  I  was  not  thinking  of  fear  but  of  fraud." 

"Then  that,"  said  he,  firmly,  "is  all  imagination.  Dispel 
such  an  idea  from  your  mind.  He  had  everything  to  lose  and 
nothing  to  gain  by  giving  out  his  death.  He  forfeits  his  pension, 
and  his  wife  may  re-marry.  These  things  do  not  matter  when 
one  is  in  another  world,  but  while  one  is  here,  they  matter 
greatly.  I  could  believe  that  he  might  have  a  morbid  wish  to 
read  his  own  obituaries — he  was  so  inordinately  vain.  Fraud, 
however,  is  another  affair.  He  was  awkward  when  it  came  to 
vulgar  misdeeds.  He  had  every  vice,  but  he  could  always  per- 
suade himself  that  they  were  refinements — evidence  of  culture 
and  superiority  of  spirit.  He  drank  to  excess,  yet  no  one  ever 
saw  him  drunk.  The  first  time  he  cheated  at  cards,  however, 
he  was  found  out.  Parflete's  whole  history  might  be  conveyed 
in  those  two  facts.  Madame  Duboc  used  to  call  him  the  bap- 
tized satyr.  Did  you  ever  meet  that  charming  and  accom- 
plished lady  ?  I  believe  she  had  not  one  true  friend  in  the 
world." 

I  told  him  that  I  had  seen  her  on  two  occasions,  and  I  spoke 
of  her  extraordinary  beauty. 

"  It  was  miraculous,"  said  he,  "  and  the  Archduke's  infatua- 
tion could  not  be  blamed.  She  was  the  sole  love  of  his  life,  and 
although  he  was  a  hard  man,  he  remembered  her  till  the  end  of 
his  days.  And,  after  all,  she  was  his  canonical  wife.  No  doubt, 
her  ancestors,  too,  could  be  found,  if  necessary,  sufficiently  noble  ! 

*  It  should  be  remembered  that  Orange  was  not  then  aware  of  the  various  intrigues  at 
the  Alberian  Court,  nor  of  the  late  Archduke's  determination  to  recognize  his  daughter 
publicly* 

f  ♦ 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  321 

The  time  has  come  for  her  daughter  to  stand  on  her  rights. 
The  marriage  was  and  has  ever  been  acknowledged  by  Rome, 
and  although  His  Holiness  would  no  doubt  prefer  to  maintain 
silence  on  so  disturbing  a  question,  he  could  not,  for  all  the 
threats  of  Europe,  de'ny  her  legitimacy." 

All  in  a  moment,  through  the  gloom,  I  saw  the  color  of  his 
dangerous  schemes. 

"  A  nobleman,"  said  I — "  or  a  country  gentleman — who  owns 
even  a  small  estate  may  exercise  certain,  if  limited,  powers,  and 
call  himself  master  of  his  fate,  but  a  prince  reduced  to  a  private 
station  is  in  a  wretched  state  of  dependence.  He  is  useless  in 
politics,  a  burden  to  his  country,  and  his  title,  separated  from 
royal  or  official  duties,  is  an  empty  term.  He  is,  in  fact,  a 
spectacle  of  ruin  or  of  scorn.  Mrs.  Parflete — whose  one  desire 
is  to  live  in  retirement — would  never  care  to  excite  public  atten- 
tion by  asserting  a  dignity  which  would  create  a  thousand 
slanders — a  thousand  enemies,  and  give  not  a  single  privilege." 

Here,  with  a  candid  yet  piercing  glance,  he  mterrupted  me, — 

"  You  forget  one  thing.  The  little  Archduke,  her  half- 
brother,  is  a  sickly,  half-witted  boy." 

"Sickly  princes  often  live  the  longest." 

"When  they  are  virtuous — not  otherwise.  But  this  one  is  a 
poor,  eiTeminate  lad,  who  dances,  who  has  a  room  full  of  dolls 
and  plays  on  the  fiddle  two  hours  every  day,  more  because  he  is 
ordered  to  do  so  than  from  any  taste  for  music  !  " 

His  tone,  I  noticed,  was  more  sorrowful  than  contemptuous, 
and  the  accent  of  regret — inappropriate  for  words  so  bitter,  made 
an  impression  upon  me. 

"  It  comes  to  this,  then,"  said  I,  "  you  wish  Madame  to  de- 
clare her  claim  to  the  Throne  ?  " 

"  It  comes  to  that,"  said  he,  after  a  short  pause. 

My  estimate  of  his  sagacity  did  not  allow  me  to  think  him 
other  than  a  liar  in  this  last  assertion.  He  must  have  known 
that  the  course  of  action  which  he  proposed  could  only  recom- 
mend itself  to  the  enemy  of  all  human  happiness.  Had  he 
seemed  a  vain  person,  I  would  have  accused  him  frankly  of 
speaking  in  contradiction  to  his  own  obvious  good  statesmanship 
— with  more  compliments  to  the  same  effect.  To  which,  in  his 
anxiety  to  save  his  credit,  he  might  have  replied  in  such  a  way 
as  to  betray  his  real  sympathies.  But  he  had  too  intelligent  a 
mind  to  be  caught  by  bait  so  common,  and  indeed,  everything 
about  him  betokened  fanaticism  rather  than  rascality.  He  was, 
perhaps,  bound  by  an  unscrupulous  devotion  to  some  person, 
some  cause,  or  some  idea  of  duty.  A  peculiar  hardness  and  self- 
sufficiency  about  his  whole  being  restrained,  however,  the  notion 
21 


322  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

that  he  was  actuated  by  any  especial  affection  for  an  individual. 
He  had,  I  decided,  that  form  of  egoism  which  renders  a  man 
rebellious  under  authority,  but  a  slave  to  his  own  private  and 
fantastic  rules  of  conduct.  He  reminded  me  of  those  lawyers 
who,  well  knowing  a  client  to  be  a  rogue,  do  their  utmost,  as  a 
point  of  professional  honor,  to  prove  the  innocent  party  in  the 
wrong.  An  instinct  warned  me  that  he  was  acting  m  some 
double  interest — partly  for  the  Archduchess  and  partly  for  the 
young  Archduke — that  he  had  come  to  preach  false  doctrine  in 
order  to  be  taught  the  true,  I  knew  that  a  woman  ofMadame's 
high  spirit  and  majestic  character  had  nothing  to  fear  in  a 
verbal  duel  with  a  man  of  his  class.  I  answered  him,  therefore, 
in  such  a  way  that  he  could  not  be  certain  whether  I  was  in  jest 
or  in  earnest. 

"  Saul,"  said  I,  "  went  out  to  seek  asses  and  found  a  kingdom, 
but  I  have  never  yet  heard  of  any  man  or  woman  who  went  out 
for  a  kingdom  and  did  not  meet  witii  contempt  !  " 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  surprise  and  seemed  at  a  loss  for 
the  right  reply. 

"  I  grant,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  that  the  question  of  the  Throne  is 
remote  and  difficult.  But  she  can  form,  in  the  mean  time,  some 
alliance  worthy  of  her  blood.  When  the  period  of  mourning 
has  elapsed,  she  will  need  a  protector.  Is  she  not  alone  m  the 
world  ? " 

"There  is  much  in  what  you  say, "said  I. 

"  But  surely  you  agree  with  me  ?  "  he  insisted, 

"  In  such  a  matter,  I  could  agree  only  with  the  lady  herself. 
If  she  saw  fit  to  remain  as  she  is,  I  should  feel  bound  to  honor 
the  decision.  But  if  she  resolved  on  marriage,  I  should  think  it 
a  wise  step." 

"Even  supposing  that  her  choice  fell  on  the  Marquis  de  Cas- 
trillon  ?  He  is  poor,  he  is  disreputable,  but  he  is  young,  he  is 
handsome,  and  he  is  a  grandee  of  Spain." 

"  But,  admitting  all  these  high  qualifications,"  said  I,  "would 
he  still  be  thought  sufficiently  distinguished  to  form  a  party  in 
any  alliance  ?  " 

"You  are  a  little  satirical,  Monsieur,"  said  he,  smiling. 
"There  are,  however,  but  three  families  in  Europe  of  so  many 
descents  as  the  Hausees,  and  the  house  of  Castrillon  is  not,  I 
own,  one  of  those  three." 

This  foolish  remark  was  delivered  with  such  an  air  of  en- 
couragement that  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  its  meaning.  I 
laughed  outright  at  his  impudence,  and  said  that  Madame  wss 
not  the  woman  to  base  her  opi:.icn  of  a  man  on  the  empty  fact 
that  he  had  a  few  descents  more  or  less  than  another.     But  the 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  323 

situation  was  becoming,  I  tliought,  far  too  intimate.  I  knew  no 
more  of  Mudara  than  his  card,  his  account  of  himself,  and  my 
own  instinct  told  me.  I  determined  to  change  the  subject  and 
I  did  so  most  abruptly — wishing  to  show  him  that  I  would  dis- 
cuss the  Archduchess  and  her  affairs  no  further.  I  had  made  up 
my  mind — in  the  face  of  his  assertions  and  his  consummate 
mastery  ot  the  Spanish  tongue — that  the  Agent  was  no  real 
Spaniard.  That  haughty,  reserved  and  chivalrous  race  does 
not  produce  men  of  his  calibre,  and,  when  persons  claiming 
that  country  show  dispositions  opposed  to  the  national  char- 
acter, it  will  be  found  that  they  have  sprung  from  alien  stock 
and  have  neither  the  tissue  nor  the  traditions  of  the  superb 
people  whom  they  pretend  to  represent.  Mudara,  it  is  true,  had 
the  presence  and  self-possession  of  one  wljo  had  been  born  in  no 
ignoble  state  :  he  was  a  subordinate  yet  never  an  inferior  ;  he 
could  flatter  without  becoming  servile  ;  his  eye  was  fearless,  his 
features  were  clear  ;  every  gesture,  every  e.xpression,  showed, 
unmistakably,  pure  blood.  But  of  what  kind  ?  Chivalry  was 
as  far  from  him  as  vulgarity  :  he  was  not  a  gentleman  in  our 
sense  of  the  word  :  nor  was  he  base. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  been  often  in  Alberia  ?  "  said  I,  "  indeed, 
a  great  traveller  in  all  parts  of  the  globe  ?  " 

On  his  replying  in  the  affirmative,  I  was  able  to  drive  the 
conversation  toward  international  politics,  on  which  he  expressed 
himself  promiscuously  in  French,  Italian,  and  German,  accord- 
ing to  the  subjects  under  discussion.  He  spoke  all  three  Ian- 
gages  with  perfect  fluency,  but  he  acted  them,  also,  borrowing 
in  each  case  the  mannerisms  which  are  associated  respectively 
with  the  French,  Italian  and  German  nations.  He  could  have 
passed,  in  ordinary  circumstances,  for  a  native  of  any  one  of 
these  countries.  Half  in  fun,  I  addressed  him,  first  in  the  meagre 
Russian,  and  then  in  the  less  Turkish,  at  my  command.  His 
Russian  was  too  good  for  me.  I  begged  him  to  stop.  After  a 
certain  hesitation,  he  answered  my  Turkish  remark,  and,  for 
the  first  time  during  our  long  interview,  he  became  natural. 
He  was  at  last  himself.*  I  was  careful  not  to  betray  my  dis- 
covery, and,  to  his  evident  relief,  I  resumed  the  conversation 
in  Spanish. 

*  Lucas  Mudara  was  a  Turk  who,  either  from  conviction  or  interest,  had  professed  in 
his  early  youth  the  Christian  faith.  He  received  the  greater  part  of  his  education  in 
Russia — where  he  was  ordained  priest  in  the  Greek  Church.  Five  years  afterwards,  he 
quarrelled  with  his  Bishop  and  fled  to  Alberia.  There,  in  consequence  of  his  talents, 
his  gift  of  languages,  and  his  supposed  sincerity,  he  was  well  received  in  every  quarter. 
Later  on,  he  established  himself  as  a  silk  merchant  at  Madrid,  where,  as  h  e  was  never 
seen  to  observe  any  religious  duties,  his  neighbors  regarded  him  as  a  heretic. 


324  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  Do  you  not  think,"  said  I,  <■  that  the  great  religious  war  of 
the  future  will  rest  between  the  Christian,  the  Jew  and  the 
Mussulman  ?  " 

"Between  the  Church  of  Rome,  the  Jew  and  the  Mussul- 
man," said  he  ;  "  Christians  outside  the  Church  would  merely 
come  like  birds  and  beasts  of  prey— alter  the  battle  !  They 
talk  about  Jesus  Christ,  but  they  take  their  gospel  from  Vol- 
taire. The  Mussulman  will  fight  for  God  and  his  prophet  ; 
Protestants  will  fight  only  for  their  purse.  Prick  that— and  you 
will  find  them  as  meek  as  the  saints  and  as  hardy  as  the  martyrs." 
I  warned  him  that  patriotism  was  not  yet  an  extinct  virtue 
in  any  European  country— whether  Greek,  Lutheran,  Calvinistic, 
or  English  in  creed. 

"True,"  said  he,  "but  patriotism  and  religion  have  become 
utterly  dissociated  in  the  policy  of  every  Christian  Government. 
Patriotism  itself  is  now  a  profitable  name  for  commercial  in- 
terests, and  State  theology  has  degenerated  into  a  mere  science 
of  outward  appearances.  What  Anglo-Saxon  in  his  senses  could 
shed  one  drop  of  blood  for  the  Church  of  England  as  it  stands 
at  present  1  He  would  as  soon  go  to  the  stake  for  the  General 
Post  Office,  or  for  the  Lord  Mayor  and  his  Aldermen." 

"There,"  said  L  unable  to  refrain  from  laughter,  "you  are 
in  error.  English  people  love  honesty  and  hate  iniquity. 
They  may  not  be  profoundly  religious,  and  certainly  they  are 
not  well  instructed  in  matters  of  faith  and  doctrine,  but  so  long 
as  they  can  believe  in  a  person  or  an  idea,  they  will  fight  for 
both  with  the  courage  of  lions  and  a  fidelity  more  than  heroic. 
Their  clergy — as  a  body— are  remarkable  for  uprightness  of 
character  and  every  social  virtue.  Many  of  them  have  a  fervent 
piety.  You  could  not  read  their  writings  nor  hear  their  ser- 
mons nor  watch  their  lives  and  doubt  it.  I  rarely  meet  one 
but  I  feel  that  Church  would  be  the  stronger  for  such  a  son. 
Once  convinced  and  once  given  the  courage  of  their  convic- 
tions— and  that,  when  a  man  is  bound  and  fettered  by  family 
ties  is  no  light  thing — they  w-ould  carry  the  world  before  them. 
They  are  fine  fellows — a  bold  stroke  more  and  they  would  be 
fine  priests." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  he,  dryly,  "your  great  Martyr,  St. 
Thomas  Becket  has  not  had  many  successors  at  Canterbury  ! 
But  his  mother  was  a  Saracen  ;  he  had  the  Oriental  fervor  in 
his  veins." 

"That  is  a  legend,"  I  replied.        ^ 

"  It  has  never  been  disproved,"  answered  Mudara. 

"  I  have  never  doubted  it,"  said  L 

We  were  interrupted  at  this  moment  by  the  entrance  of  Lady 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  325 

Fitz  Rewes.  Si  e  was  pale,  but  whether  from  anger  or  from 
grief  I  could  not  decide,  and  she  spoke  under  her  breath. 

"  Mrs.  Parflete  has  gone  to  the  chapel,"  she  said,  "  if  you 
follow  me  you  may  be  able  to  see  her  and  judge  tor  yourselves 
how  little  fit  she  is  to  be  disturbed  by  strangers." 

The  idea  of  spying  upon  a  lady  in  such  distress  seemed  to  me 
detestable.     I  declined  to  go. 

"  But  I  insist,"  said  Pensde  ;  "  I  can  act  no  longer  on  my 
own  responsibility.  It  is  right  that  Mr.  Mudara  should  satisfy 
himself  of  his  ward's  condition,  and  as  for  you — " 

She  looked  at  me  and    bit  her  lip — 

"  Will  you  not  come,"  she  asked,  "  as  my  friend  ?  " 

She  stepped  out  on  to  the  lawn  and  we  followed  her. 

It  was  now  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  sea  was 
as  tremulous  as  the  trees  on  an  Autumn  day  when  they  wait 
for  the  windy  scythe  of  Winter.  As  I  beheld  it,  I  seemed  to  be 
looking  at  the  reflection  of  my  own  heart.  The  conversation 
with  Mudara — slight  as  it  was— had  roused  the  old  doubt, 
which  always  slept  lightly,  that  I  was  obedient  to  my  true  voca- 
tion. And  this,  together  with  the  joy  and  dread  combined  of 
seeing  Brigit  once  more,  my  terror  at  the  possible  effects  of  her 
illness,  the  despair  caused  by  my  poverty — what  had  I  to  offer 
her  ?  the  piercing  tear — certainty— uncertainty — that  she  cared 
for  me  as  a  friend  only — made  me  so  dazed  with  wretchedness 
that  reason  itself  seemed  a  torment  and  a  disease.  There  is 
something,  however,  in  the  very  p  esence  of  the  ocean  with  its 
extent,  its  depth,  its  changeabler  :;ss  which  lifts  the  soul  to  the 
remembrance  of  that  Divine  Gr  xe  which  changes  not  and  is 
so  vast  that  Heaven  above  the  sky  cannot  contain  it. 

I  sent  my  hopes  beyond  thij  land  of  the  rustling  of  wings 
where,  to  our  short  sight,  all  powers  and  emotions  rest  a  mo- 
ment only  to  flee  the  faster  away.  But,  I  know,  that,  in  the 
kingdom  of  God  from  Whom  there  is  no  hiding-place  in  heaven 
or  in  hell,  in  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  sea  or  in  the  darkness, 
those,  whose  love  has  been  found  steadfast  during  the  flying 
days  ol  adversity,  shall  love  forever  in  a  fi.xed  and  perfect  hap- 
piness. Remembering  this,  I  was  able  to  collect  myself  and 
throw  aside  despair. 

We  went  through  a  grassy  lane  and  then  down  into  an  under- 
ground passage  from  which  we  finally  emerged  into  a  kind  of 
wood.  Here,  under  the  shade  of  some  large  beech-trees  and 
much  over-grown  by  ivy,  stood  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  Gothic 
church.  But  tour  w-indows — or  rather  clefts  in  the  masonry 
— and  two  crumbling  walls  preserved  even  a  little  of  the  original 
design.     The   rest  was   broken   into  wide  gaps  and  irregular 


326  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

arches  through  which  we  saw  masses  of  foliage  and  gUmpses 
of  the  sea.  The  floor  was  made  up  of  moss-covered  fragments 
— some  of  them  grave-stones,  their  names  and  inscriptions 
wholly  obscured  by  time.  One  corner,  however,  had  apparently 
been  restored,  for  it  was  separated  from  the  rest  by  a  rusty  gate 
wrought  in  iron  to  represent  a  death's-head,  cross-bones,  and  a 
sand-glass,  The  treasure  it  protected  was  a  dismal  monument 
erected  to  the  memory  of  Hugo  de  Baskerville,  eleventh  Vis- 
count Fitz  Rewes — a  nobleman  who  had  been  well  distinguished 
and  thoroughly  forgotten  during  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne.  On 
the  wall  just  behind  this  granite  tribute,  some  figures  of  women 
in  flowing  drapery  and  with  hands  clasped  in  the  attitude  of 
prayer  were  rudely  carved.  Even  in  the  sunlight  and  under  a 
sky  as  blue  as  Italy's,  it  was  a  damp  and  melancholy  spot.  The 
strong  salt  air  rose  from  the  marsh-lands  beyond  :  jackdaws,  sea- 
gulls and  curlews  had  made  it  their  haunt  :  its  sacredness  had  de- 
parted and  it'did  not  seem  to  me  like  hallowed  ground.  I  was 
able  to  observe  all  these  details  for  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  told  us  to 
remain  there  and  watch  till  Mrs.  Parflete  went  into  the  Lady 
Chapel.  The  passage  between  the  Lady  Chapel  and  the  part  in 
which  we  stood,  had,  for  some  reason,  been  closed  up.  Ivy 
now  concealed  what  may  have  been  visible  of  the  brick-work, 
and  it  was  not  until  Pens^e  drew  our  attention  to  a  small  window 
— quite  hidden  under  the  leaves — that  I  fully  realized  the  part 
we  were  expected  to  play. 

There  could  have  been  no  question  of  Mudara's  legal  right  to 
assure  himself  of  his  ward's  state  of  health  and  mind.  Had  he 
refused  to  let  that  particular  occasion  pass,  it  would  have  shown 
ordinary  good  feeling,  no  doubt,  but  at  the  cost  of  duty.  Much 
as  this  harsh  consideration  grated,  I  could  not,  in  common  justice, 
cast  it  aside.  Of  Lady  Fitz  Rewes's  friendship  for  the  Arch- 
duchess, of  my  portion  in  her  welfare  he  had — he  could  have 
had — not  the  smallest  safe  knowledge.  That  we  were  her  wilful 
enemies  was  hardly,  in  the  circumstances,  conceivable,  but  how 
far  our  devotion  was  selfish  or  to  what  a  degree  it  may  have 
been  tinctured  by  motives  contrary  to  her  real  interests,  he  could 
not,  by  any  human  means,  decide  until  he  himself  had  seen  and 
conversed  with  Brigit  herself.  I  sought  in  vain  for  an  easier 
solution  of  the  difficulty  than  the  one  before  me.  I  had,  for  a 
moment,  so  stood  that  Mudara  could  not  approach  the  window. 
I  stepped  aside  and  walked  away — leaving  him  to  spy  alone  and, 
so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  unobserved. 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  followed  me. 

"  Surely  you  wish  to  see  her  ? "  said  she. 

I  dared  not  trust  myself  to  give  an  answer. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  327 

"  O  Robert  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "you  are  very  cruel  to  me. 
But  you  are  more  cruel  to  yourself.  How  you  are  suffering  ! 
Your  eyes  are  full  of  blood." 

Mudara  called  her  and  she  glided  back  to  him.  Presently 
they  both  joined  me.  I  had  formed  such  a  violent  hatred  of  the 
Agent  that  I  kept  my  glance  from  his  face,  so  I  do  not  know 
how  he  looked.     His  tone,  when  he  spoke,  was  contident. 

"  The  Archduchess,"  said  he,  "  seems  ill  and  in  grief,  but  I 
am  certain  that  she  is  mistress  of  all  her  faculties.  The  Arch- 
duke, her  father,  was  subject  to  these  attacks  of  reticence. 
They  are  a  blessed  gift.  I  must  beg  her  to  see  me  and  without 
delay.     My  business  will  not  keep." 

I  cannot  deny  that  these  words  gave  me  a  great  relief.  When 
he  suggested  that  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  should  go  at  once  to  the 
Chapel  and  inform  Madame  that  he  was  waiting  without,  I  sup- 
ported his  wish.  Pens^e  went  away  and,  after  a  short  time 
which  seemed  to  me  interminable,  came  back. 

"  Mrs.  Parflete  will  see  you  in  there,"  she  said  :  "  that  is  the 
path." 

He  received  the  message  with  an  air  of  cold  self-satisfaction, 
bowed  to  both  of  us,  and  stole  out  in  the  direction  Pens^e  had 
indicated.  I  commended  my  poor  Lady  to  God,  to  our  Lord 
Jesus,  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  to  her  Guardian  Angel  and  to  all 
the  saints.  But  my  friend  unable,  perhaps,  to  account  for  my 
silence,  struck  me  on  the  shoulder  with  all  the  little  force  of  her 
small,  delicate  arm. 

"  You  are  so  stubborn,"  she  cried,  "  and  you  are  so  unkind. 
You  do  not  understand  me  and  you  never  will.  I  knew  that 
nothing  would  induce  you  to  look  through  the  window  at  Brigit, 
but  I  could  not  do  less  than  give  you  the  opportunity.  You 
are  longing  to  see  her.  I  am  sure  of  it.  I  have  never  known 
such  a  case  of  infatuation.  Yet  you  treat  me  like  a  stranger. 
You  deny  me  your  confidence." 

Full,  to  the  utmost  measure  of  her  imagined  ill-usage,  she 
indulged  in  a  long  scoldmg  complaint  made  up  of  rhetorical 
questions  addressed  to  herself.  Heaven,  and  me.  God  knew 
this  and  God  knew  that.  Had  she  not  loaded  my  friend — solely 
on  my  account — with  kindnesses  ?  Had  she  not  shown  her  the 
most  tender  devotion  and  the  love  of  a  sister?  Had  she  ever 
denied  her  rare  beauty,  her  virtue,  her  sweetness  of  disposition  ? 
Had  she  sought  to  make  mischief  between  us  ?  Had  she  (Pens^ej 
been  as  many  other  women  in  the  same  strange  situation,  she 
would  most  certainly  have  done  so.  1  could  not  get  a  word  in 
edgeways.  She  went  on  with  great  vehemence  and  at  last — as 
I  had  expected — burst  into  tears. 


328  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  You  go  about,"  said  she,  "  making  everyone's  life  a  burden 
because  no  one  knows  how  to  take  you  !  You  have  reduced 
Brigit  to  such  wretchedness,  that,  although  she  has  good  sense 
much  beyond  her  years,  she  thinks  she  wants  to  be  a  Nun — a 
life  to  which  she  is  utterly  unsuited.  I  would  take  the  veil  to- 
morrow gladly.  But  her  sorrow  is  not  like  mine.  I  have  been 
plunged  in  deep  affliction.  The  only  consolation  I  can  have  is 
afforded  me  by  the  reflection  that  I  tended  Lionel  in  his  last 
hours,  and  that  his  latest  breath  was  drawn  when  I  was  with 
him  !     No,  her  sorrow  is  not  like  unto  my  sorrow  !  " 

It  was,  no  doubt,  most  natural  that  comparisons  should  arise 
in  her  mind  between  the  infamous  Parflete  and  that  perfect 
knight  Fitz  Rewes,  who,  as  Lord  Wight  frequently  told  me, 
"was  the  most  graceful  and  accomplished  gentleman  of  the  gen- 
eration he  adorned."  Had  his  widow  allowed  me  to  speak,  I 
would  have  said  all  I  could  to  show  my  profound  sympathy. 
But,  without  a  pause,  she  continued  reciting  her  string  of  griev- 
ances and  even  went  so  far  as  to  reproach  me  with  the  early 
death  of  her  parents  which  took  place  before  I  was  born.  One 
moment  she  seemed  to  be  making,  to  my  infinite  embarrass- 
ment, a  general  confession  :  the  ne.xt,  she  was  accusing  all  her 
friends  of  malign  coldness  and  the  blackest  ingratitude.  At 
last,  however.  God  in  mercy  restored  her  temper.  She  declared 
it  was  my  fault  and  began  to  smile  as  prettily  as  her  consider- 
able gifts  in  that  direction  permitted. 

"Now  let  us  be  kind  to  each  other,"  said  she,  "  and  talk  affec- 
tionately as  brother  and  sister  should  !  " 

As  I  had  not  opened  my  mouth  once  during  the  preceding 
interview,  I  begged  her  pardon  humbly  for  any  remark  and  all 
the  remarks  I  had  made.  This  she  readily  and  most  graciously 
granted,  but  not  without  warning  me  that  I  ought  to  be  more 
careful  of  wounding  people's  feelmgs.  She  understood  me  and 
was  willing  to  make  every  allowance  for  my  humors — for  I  had 
shown  a  line  sense  of  honor  in  truly  hard  circumstances.  Yet 
all  the  same  it  had  been  the  Will  of  God  to  make  a  way  out  of 
my  perplexity  and  I  was  not  at  all  thankful  or  nice.  And  1  made 
it  most  disagreeable  and  trying  and  a  fearful  strain  for  every 
one  concerned. 

"  What,  after  all,  have  I  said  ?  "  I  exclaimed,  by  this  time  fairly 
exasperated. 

"You  have  hurt  me  very  much  indeed,"  she  answered,  "but 
I  lorgive  and  forget  it  now  that  you  admit  that  you  were  in  the 
wrong  and  behaved  badly  !  But  I  should  always  forgive  you  in 
any  case,  because  I  am  fond  of  you  and  I  am  sure  that  you  mean 
well  and  wouldn't  grieve  me  for  worlds." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  329 

•«  There,"  said  I,  "  you  are  right." 

"  As  if  I  had  ever  wronged  you  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  as  if  I 
could,  dear  Robert  !  " 

She  spoke  with  angelic  amiability  and  I  was  too  grateful  for 
the  change  to  quarrel  with  her  reasons  for  reconciliation. 

She  leaned  upon  me,  and  we  paced  the  narrow  area  circum- 
scribed by  the  fallen  walls.  I  was  trying  to  imagine  the  inter- 
view between  Brigit  and  Mudara.  My  heart  and  my  thoughts 
were  far  away  from  the  kuul,  capricious  creature  by  my  side. 
But  she  talked  with  vehemence  about  my  future,  and  assured 
me  that  I  ought  to  marry, 

"  Ordinary  rules,"  said  she,  "  do  not  apply  in  extraordinary 
cases.  For  once,  dear  Robert,  listen  to  common  sense.  Be 
guided  by  me.  You  both  love  each  other  very  much.  It  is  a 
good  and  honorable  love.  I  want  you  to  be  happy.  And  she  is 
all  I  could  wish  for  you — she  is,  indeed." 

She  paused  and  glanced  up  into  my  face. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  I  am  unnatural,"  said  she. 

"  Why  unnatural  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  to  be  jealous.' 

"  Angels  cannot  be  jealous." 

She  drew  away  and  said,  with  great  petulance, — 

"  I  hate  always  being  called  an  angel  !  You  never  give  me 
credit  for  any  nice  feeling  !  You  seem  to  thmk  that  it  requires 
no  effort  to  be  a  good  friend.     But  it  is  an  effort  all  the  same." 

"  In  some  cases,  certainly.     In  yours — never." 

"  Oh,  very  well.  Have  your  own  way.  I  am  a  trog  then  ! 
I  am  quite  different  from  all  other  human  beings  !  I  am  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  give  up  every  one  I  care  for  !  It  gives  me 
perfect  joy  to  step  into  the  background  and  send  some  other 
woman  forward  !  Of  course  !  I  am  like  the  poor  doll  who 
loved  to  have  pins  hammered  into  her  head  !  Oh,  how  stupid 
men  are,  and  how  foolish  they  can  be  !  " 

She  went  on  and  on  and  on  in  the  same  strain  till  she  seemed 
to  be  a  humming-bird  with  a  lamenting,  femmine,  yet  prettily 
musical  note.  And  although  she  herself  was  very  near  me,  her 
voice  sounded  far  away.  I  would  not  have  been  alone — for  her 
presence  was  a  help  and  a  pleasure.  Now  and  then  I  looked 
down  at  her  little  foot,  or  remarked  her  soft,  trans/.arent  com- 
plexion which  flushed  and  paled  with  every  passing  whim.  Her 
flaxen  curls  fluttered  in  the  wind.  Once  she  stopped  short  in 
the  midst  of  an  oration  on  "  the  Tomb,"  and  exclaimed, — 

"  Aren't  they  ridiculous  ?  " 

"  What  ?"  said  I. 

"  My  curls  !  "  said  she.     "  I  wish  they  would  go  out  of  fashion. 


330  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

But  they  look  so  well  on  the  Empress  !  .  .  .  Yes,  I  hope  to  be 
buried,  please  God,  beside  Lionel." 

Lionel's  name  was  never  long  absent  from  her  lips.  When- 
ever I  heard  it,  I  would  say,  "  Poor  darling  !  what  trouble  you 
have  had  !  " 

"  Haven't  I,"  she  would  answer.  "  I  have  had  a  lot  of  sorrow, 
haven't  I,  Robert  ?  " 

Had  it  been  possible,  I  believe  she  would  have  spent  her  life 
gladly  repeating  over  with  me  that  same  little  dialogue — agam 
and  again — without  a  single  variation. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  331 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Before  proceeding  further,  it  will  be  necessary  to  put 
before  the  reader  a  few  facts  from  Mudara's  Confession  — 
a  document  to  which  reference  has  once  already  been 
made.  In  this  manuscript,  it  is  clearly  shown  that  the 
Agent's  visit  to  Catesby  was  of  an  odious  sort.  There  is 
a  treachery  that  is  knit  up — partly  from  warped  principles, 
partly  from  motives,  which,  if  never  excusable,  are  always 
comprehensible.  But  there  is  another  kind,  more  rare  and 
certainly  more  dangerous,  that  is  less  a  studied  policy 
than  a  disposition  of  mind — a  habit  of  conduct  to  be  exer- 
cised impartially  in  all  relationships  and  in  every  situation 
of  life,  even  at  a  heavy  loss,  even  at  the  risk  sometimes 
of  certain  self-destruction.  The  need  to  deceive  becomes 
in  fact  a  passion.  Its  slave  must  lie,  must  dissimulate, 
must  betray  because  his  soul,  by  submitting  to  the  bond- 
age, has  gradually  lost  the  power  to  bring  forth  an  honest 
thought.  That  Mudara  meant  no  deliberate  malice  toward 
his  ward  is  as  evident  as  his  own  double-dealing.  It  is 
probable  that  he  hoped — from  sheer  amiability — that  she 
would  come  unharmed  out  of  the  snares  he  had  himself 
prepared  for  her  ruin.  But  he  wished  to  ascertain,  let  the 
event  be  what  it  might,  first,  whether  she  was  already 
involved,  or  could  be  tempted  to  engage,  in  any  conspiracy 
against  the  Alberian  Government  ;  secondly,  how  far  she 
was  concerned  in  the  Carlist  movement.  His  third  object 
was  to  urge  on,  by  all  the  means  in  his  power,  her  mar- 
riage with  Robert  de  Hausee — commonly  known  as 
Robert  Orange.     Parflete  had  been  paid  a  large  sum  for 


S32  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

his  feigned  suicide,  but  he  was  a  man   of  uncertain  im- 
morality.     His  remorseful  return  to  the  scene  was,  at  any 
hour,  possible,  and,  although  such  inconvenient  penitence 
was  to  be  held  at  bay  by  bribes   and  menaces  so  long  as 
either  could  move  him,  and  by  precautions  so  long  as  they 
could  be  invented,  both  Zeuill  and  Mudara  felt,  that,  there 
was  not  a  moment  to  be  wasted  in  bringing  about  what 
they  were  pleased  to  call  /he  De  Hauske  complication.     All 
their  plots  and  efforts  were   directed  towards  preserving 
every   Lutheran — indeed,  every   Protestant   power — from 
the  Catholic  influence  and  the  Legitimate  Causes.     No 
claim,  no  party  was  so  slight  or  so  purely  sentimental  as 
to  seem  unworthy  of  suppression.     To  crush  the  Papacy 
was,  no  doubt,  impossible.     The  heathen  Emperors,  the 
Greeks  of  Constantinople,  the  barbarian  hordes,  the  Lom- 
bards, the  Normans,  the  nobles  of  Rome,  the  Emperors 
of  Germany  and  France,  the  Kings  of  England  and  Spain 
who  had   striven  with   the  Pontiffs,  had  passed  away,  all 
out  of  power  and  many  out  of  remembrance.     It  had  been 
proved  that  "  God  made  the  nations  for  health:  there  is 
no  kingdom  of  hell  upon  the  earth. "     But  if  one  could  not 
root  out  the  Church,  it  was  always  easy  to  set  up  forces 
against  it,  and,  if  one  could  not  destroy  the  great  Catholic 
families,  one  might  always  observe  that  old   tradition  in 
European    diplomacy — "an  alliance  against   the  House 
of   Bourbon    is     the    most   desirable   connection    in    the 
world."     For  this  last  reason,  even  had  there  been  none 
other,  Brigit,  as  a   conspicuous    adherent   to   the   Carlist 
Cause,  would  have  been  a  marked  figure   for  "manage- 
ment."    Modern  refinement  shrinks  from  crude  methods 
of  persecution.      It  is   eminently   civil,    well-meaning,   a 
little  wiser,  that  is  all,  than  its  victim.      We  shall  see  the 
method  by  which  "superior  wisdom,"  in  the  present  case, 
labored  for  expediency  as  opposed  to  "superstition." 
Mudara,  on  leaving  Pense'e  and  Robert,   pursued  the 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  333 

path  which  led  to  the  other  side  of  the  old  ruin.  The 
walls  of  the  Lady  Chapel  were  so  leafy  with  their  own 
dense  vines,  and  the  small  structure,  as  a  whole,  stood  so 
sheltered  by  the  beech  and  fir  trees,  that  a  stranger  would 
have  passed  it  by  without  suspecting  its  existence.  It  had 
often  escaped,  therefore,  the  cruel  attention  of  Catesby's 
many  besiegers,  and  it  had  suffered  chiefly  from  the  in- 
visible hands  of  time  and  neglect.  Mudara  found  that 
the  path  abruptly  ceased.  It  had  grown  imperceptibly 
narrower  till,  at  last,  it  terminated  in  the  long  weeds  and 
waving  grass.  The  footsteps  of  the  two  women  who  had 
preceded  him  had  left,  however,  slight  traces  here  and 
there.  These  he  followed  for  a  little  distance,  when  they 
stopped  before  a  large  impenetrable  briar-bush.  He  tried 
to  peer  between  the  branches,  and,  in  so  doing,  felt  it 
yield.  Pushing  harder,  he  saw  that  it  grew  out  of  a  box 
attached  to — and  concealing — a  low  oaken  door.  This 
stood  ajar  and  led  into  a  small  stone  vestibule  at  the  end 
of  which  hung  a  heavy  velvet  curtain — very  faded  yet 
evidently  placed  there  but  recently.  He  drew  this  aside 
and  found  himself  in  the  Chapel. 

The  crumbling  walls  were  still  whole  :  the  small  and 
glassless  windows  were  dark  with  foliage ;  and  such 
light  as  entered  came  in  through  the  wide  gaps  in  the 
roof  The  altar  and  every  trace  of  it  had  been  swept 
away,  and  a  collection  of  rakes,  hods,  wheel-barrows, 
spades,  bottles  and  watering  pots  now  stood  where,  for 
five  centuries  or  more,  the  Holy  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass 
had  been  offered,  and  the  faithful  had  knelt  to  receive  the 
the  Sacred  Host.  Brigit,  as  the  Agent  entered,  was  sit- 
ting in  the  furthest  corner,  dressed  in  a  plain  gray  gown, 
her  hair  concealed  under  a  black  lace  veil,  her  hands 
tightly  clasped  over  an  open  Breviary  which  lay  upon 
her  lap.  The  little  that  was  visible  of  her  face  was  ashen 
and  every  feature  seemed  to  have  received  the  twist  of 


334  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

woe.  Grief  has  a  harsher  touch  than  death.  Mudara, 
who  was  by  nature  little  disposed  to  pity,  shuddered  to 
see  so  severe  a  change  in  a  countenance  once  the  symbol 
of  all  those  radiant  essences  which  go  to  make  the  magic 
of  youth  and  gayety.  But  at  the  sight  of  the  Agent,  the 
hue  of  life  and  blood  swept  into  her  cheeks.  The  sudden 
emotion,  the  necessity  for  speech,  the  vivid  remembrance 
this  man  brought  up  of  her  days  in  Madrid,  roused  her 
spirit  to  a  more  poignant  sorrow — a  keener  realization  of 
the  demand  upon  her  courage.  She  rose  to  her  feet :  the 
spell  of  an  impotent  yet  blighting  melancholy  fell  away. 
She  lifted  the  heavy  veil  :  her  bright  hair  shone  out  above 
her  brighter  eyes,  and  what  had  seemed  a  vanishing 
spectre  of  womanhood  was  once  again  the  defiant,  mys- 
terious and  beautiful  girl  whose  character  and  fate  alike 
had  inspired  intrigue  and  baffled  speculation.  Mudara 
knelt  and  kissed  her  hand,  then  rose,  retired  two  paces, 
and  stood  with  a  bent  head  in  an  attitude  of  extreme 
deference. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "  there  are  many  pressing  matters 
to  be  considered.     Your  Imperial  Highness  must  know — " 

"This  is  a  new  thing.  I  don't  care  for  it.  My  mother 
was  never  so  addressed." 

"The  circumstances  are  new,  Madame.  There  can 
never  be  too  many  good  Catholic  Princesses." 

"  I  agree  with  you.  But  my  life  is  not  among  Princes 
and  I  am  anxious  to  talk,  without  waste  of  time,  about 
my  own  affairs." 

Mudara's  self-control  for  a  moment  deserted  him.  A 
suspicion  that  she,  too,  possessed  more  than  ordinary 
skill  in  dissimulation  fanned  his  indifference  into  violent 
antagonism.  Enraged  at  his  own  inability  to  understand 
a  character  which  had  so  little  in  common  with  the  vulgar 
estimate  of  feminine  weakness,  and  regarding  her  judg- 
ment with  that  awe  which  soon  develops  into  hatred,  he 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  335 

resolved  to  strike  his  worst  blow  at  once  and  in  the 
roughest  manner. 

"These  are  your  affairs,  Madame,"  he  said,  his  olive 
face  glowing  with  resentment.  "There  is  a  kingdom 
waiting  to  be  claimed.  Will  you  demand  your  just  rights 
— a  Divine  Right— if  it  comes  to  that,  or  submit  to  any 
and  all  indignities.?     The  Archduke,  your  father,  is  dead." 

The  wanton  cruelty  of  this  speech  carried  its  own 
antidote.  Brigit's  mental  fortitude  rallied  and  drew  fresh 
strength  from  the  very  insolence  of  the  Agent's  attack. 
Her  hands  and  lips  tightened  :  the  color  deepened  in  her 
eyes  :  she  paced  the  Chapel  floor  for  a  few  minutes  without 
speaking,  but,  when  she  finally  turned  to  address  Mudara, 
he  saw  no  expression  except  grief  on  her  countenance,  and 
he  listened  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  inward  agitation  in  her 

voice. 

"Then,  if  my  father  is  dead,"  she  said,  "in  whose 
interest  are  you  acting  ?  " 

"In  yours,  Madame,  if  you  will  permit  it." 

"You  should  first  learn,  in  that  case,  what  my  interests 
are.  If  I  have  the  smallest  claim  on  my  father's  estate,  I 
renounce  it  gladly  in  favor  of  the  Archduke  Albert,  my 
brother,  whom  I  do  not  know  and  who  will  never,  in 
this  world,  know  me." 

"Madame,  it  is  my  duty  to  point  out  certain  facts  of 
which,  apparently,  you  are  quite  ignorant.  The  Arch- 
duke Charles,  before  his  sudden  and  lamentable  death, 
was  especially  anxious  that  you  should  adopt  a  title 
more  in  keeping  with  your  position  as  the  legitimate 
daughter  of  His  Imperial  Highness." 

She  interrupted  him, — 

"I  disposed  of  this  matter  weeks  ago.  Baron  Zeuill 
had  my  answer  then  and  you  must  regard  that  as  final." 

"  He  offered,  at  that  time,  an  insufficient  distinction," 
said   Mudara.       "And  the  case  now  is  changed.     The 


336  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Cardinal  has  led  me  to  infer  that  he  is  wholly  on  your 
side.  The  Marquis  of  Castrillon  and  a  very  strong  party 
are  only  waiting  your  commands.  I  think,  Madame,  that 
you  take  the  situation  too  lightly.  I  can  believe,  that, 
at  your  age  and  with  your  taste  for  a  private  life,  you 
shrink  from  the  glory  and  dangers  of  a  crown.  But  a 
strong  man  fears  neither  God,  nor  his  fellow-men,  nor 
himself  He  accepts  all  the  consequences  of  his  qualities, 
good  and  bad.  A  strong  woman  should  be  the  same. 
And  there  is  such  a  thing  as  duty.  Imagine  Alberia 
under  a  Lutheran  Regent,  a  crew  of  Lutheran  officials, 
and  a  child-Archduke  who  can  barely  comprehend  the 
difference  between  conscience  and  inclination.  He  is 
sickly  too  in  health.  You  are  the  next  heir.  Will  you 
toss  away  your  birthright } " 

"1  know,"  she  answered,  "that  I  am  tlie  lawful  child 
of  the  lawful  marriage  between  my  father  the  Archduke 
Charles  of  Alberia  and  my  mother,  Madame  Duboc.  But 
you  misunderstand  the  Cardinal  if  you  think  that  he 
wishes  me  to  stir  up  strife  in  my  brothers  kingdom.  As 
for  the  Marquis  of  Castrillon — he  can  lead  his  supporters 
where  they  are  wanted.  I  have  no  need  of  him  or  them. 
Take  no  thought  for  me.  I  am  in  safety  and  my  welfare 
is  not  in  the  power  of  fortune.  God  alone  has  power 
over  me,  I  put  my  trust  in  Him — not  in  men  nor  in  their 
advice." 

"Almighty  God,  no  doubt,  is  a  good  Friend,  Madame. 
But  why  does  He  with  His  Omnipotence  permit  such  in- 
justice and  so  many  horrors  in  the  world?  " 

"He  could  make  them  cease.  But  at  what  a  cost.? 
No  less  than  our  Free  Will,  which,  while  it  makes  the  mis- 
ery— makes  also  the  greatness  of  human  nature." 

"Madame  is  philosophic  beyond  her  years  !  Alberia 
would  be  happy  under  the  rule  of  so  wise  a  Princess. 
But  I  should  be  the  last  to  advocate  hasty  measures  even 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  337 

to  bring  about   that  blessed   consummation.     The  Arch- 
duke Albert  may  live,  marry,  and  have  heirs — " 

"Unless  he,  too,  should  die  as  suddenly  as  my  hus- 
band." 

"Madame.?" 

"I  say,  unless  he,  too,  should  die  as  suddenly  as  my 
husband." 

Mudara  dropped  his  eyes. 

"Such  calamities,"  said  he,  "are  always  in  the  hands 
of  Providence.  Who  can  tell  how  often  or  when  they 
will  fall  ? " 

"  Answer  this,  then,"  said  Brig-it.  "Why  do  you  come 
here  to  call  me  by  absurd  titles  and  talk  about  my  birth- 
right, when  I  do  not  yet  know  whether  my  husband's 
bodv  has  been  recovered  and  received  burial  ?  " 

"  I  feared  to  revive  a  painful  subject.  His  body  has 
not  been  found,  but  every  rite  that  is  customary  in  such 
cases  will  be  observed  !  " 

"  I  believe  that  he  was  murdered," 

"You  have  his  own  letter,  Madame." 

"It  might  be  a  forgery." 

"These  are  romantic  fears.  Villany  is  only  common 
in  story-books.  Who,  pray — except  himself — would  wish 
to  murder  Mr.  Parflete — a  gentleman  always  described  as 
his  own  enemy  .?  Suicide  was  but  the  final  step  in  a  long 
career  devoted  to  self-injury." 

"I  know  him  and  I  deny  it.  There  has  been  foul  play 
somewhere. 

"To  a  pious  mind — such  a  suspicion  is,  in  reality,  a 
hope.  Do  you  ask  me  to  argue  down  the  first  instincts 
of  a  true  affection  ?  I  will  not  attempt  it.  For  your  sake, 
I  could  wish  that  he  had  been  killed  by  other  hands  than 
his  own.  Let  me  confess  that  I  have  even  tried  to  think  so. 
You  might  then  take  some  consolation  in  revenge.  But 
what  then?  He  is  still  dead,  and  you  are  his  widow — a  girl 
3? 


338  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

in  years,  alone  in  the  world,  yet,  by  the  mercy  of  God,  not 
unprovided  for.  The  Archduke  has  left  you  a  fortune — half 
a  million  of  marks,  the  Villa  Miraflores  in  Northern  France, 
and  a  large  sum  for  the  purchase  of  an  estate — preferably 
in  England.  Madame  should  have  some  fixed  home. 
Plants  and  trees  may  be  trained  for  transplantation  from 
place  to  place,  but  they  do  not  acquire  a  perfect  form. 
They  take  no  root  and  they  remain — until  they  fade — 
TaQXQ  appearances.  Madame  will  not  be  happy  nor  truly 
mistress  of  herself  till  she  is  settled  in  her  own  establish- 
ment." 

To  weigh  other  minds  by  our  own  is  the  false  scale 
by  which  the  greater  number  of  us  miscalculate  all  hu- 
man actions  and  most  human  characters.  Mudara  had  re- 
gained his  normal  smoothness,  and  he  was  anxious  to  try 
less  direct  appeals  to  Brigit's  vanity  than  those  he  had  so 
unsuccessfully  essayed  at  the  beginning  of  their  interview. 
Strangely  enough,  it  was  his  own  cherished — and  singu- 
lar— ambition  to  be  the  owner  of  vast  private  lands.  For 
modern  Kings  and  Princes  he  had  a  genuine  contempt — 
they  seemed  to  him  as  so  many  hired  oilficials.  But  he 
envied  his  rich  colleague  the  Baron  Zeuill,  who  owned 
great  districts,  and  was,  in  fact,  an  absolute  ruler  over  his 
own  domains. 

It  occurred  to  him,  therefore,  that  Brigit,  at  the  sudden 
revelation  of  her  wealth,  would  be  led  inevitably  into  the 
betrayal — either  by  exclamation,  look,  tone,  or  manner, 
or  some  ruling  sentiment. 

"My  poor  fathei  !  "  she  said,  able  to  command  her 
tears,  but  not  her  sorrow.  "I  need  so  little.  Was  my 
mother's  miniature  buried  with  him  "^ " 

Mudara,  thrown  from  his  hope,  still  kept  his  purpose. 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  "if  your  mother  were  living, 
would  she  not  rejoice  to  see  you  come  at  last  into  your 
just  honors  1     Specie  tua  et  pulchritudine  iua  intende,  pros- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  339 

pereprocede,  etregna.  Propter  veritatem,  et  mansuetudinem 
et  justitiam  .  .  .  et  dediicet  ie  mirahiliter  dextera  iua.  Audi 
filia,  et  vide,  et  inclina  atirem  tuam. "  * 

This  profanity  but  strengthened  her  distrust. 

"Your  mind  runs  so  much  on  my  royal  honors,"  she 
•^aid,  "that  I  could  almost  think  that  you  believe  in  them  ! 
1  have  none.  A  Prince  must  reign  either  by  Divine 
Right,  or  by  the  right  of  conquest,  or  by  the  unanimous 
will  of  his  subjects.  The  Divine  Right  is  now  laughed 
at.  The  right  of  conquest,  in  my  case,  is  too  absurd  to 
be  discussed.  And  as  I  am  unknown  in  Alberia  and  my 
very  existence  unimagined,  the  unanimous  wish  of  my 
subjects  could  not  come  into  the  question." 

"You  seem,  Madame,  to  have  given  some  thought  to 
the  matter." 

"Naturally,"  she  replied,  "for,  why  not?  I  have  not 
less  ambition  than  other  women.  You  mistake  me  alto- 
gether if  you  think  I  have  no  love  of  a  great  position.  As 
for  responsibilities — they  are  inspiring.  I  have  youth  and 
strength  and  health.  I  would  like  well  to  be  acknowl- 
edged my  father's  lawful  daughter.  Perhaps  too  well. 
Who  can  say  ?  But  it  is  more  pleasing  to  God  that  I  should 
remain  in  a  private  station.  And  His  Will  is  my  happi- 
ness. What  ought  He  to  have  done  for  me,  that  He  has 
not  done?" 

"  This  is  fatalism.  It  comes  strangely  from  one  who 
would  have  given  her  life  for  the  claims  of  Don  Carlos." 

"  My  conduct  in  each  case  had  but  one  motive." 

"And  that?" 

"  Obedience,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

*  "  In  thy  comeliness  and  thy  beauty,  go  forward,  fare  prosperously 
and  reign.  Because  of  truth,  and  meekness,  and  righteousness  .  .  .  and 
thy  right  hand  shall  lead  thee  wonderfully.  Hearken,  O  daughter,  and 
consider  and  incline  thine  ear."— Psalm  xhv.  The  Roman  Breviary. 
Translated  from  the  Latin  by  John,  Marquess  of  Bute. 


340  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"To  whom  ? " 

"To  my  superiors.  Don  Carlos  is  the  true  King  of 
Spain,  You  are,  I  fear,  among  the  scoffers  who  see  in 
the  disasters  of  the  vanquished  the  condemnation  of  their 
cause.  But  those  who  know  by  what  struggles  and  sacri- 
fices, by  what  tears  and  blood,  all  victories  of  justice  are 
purchased — those  who  know  this — keep  their  faith  above 
the  bitterest  reverses  and  discouragements.  The  Carlists 
have  right  on  their  side,  and  some  day,  they  must  con- 
quer." 

"Optimist!" 

"As  for  me,"  she  continued,  "  I  have  no  cause  at  all. 
My  father's  first  marriage  was  unwise  and  unequal. 
There  are  higher  duties  than  love.  My  mother  was  an 
actress — what  had  she  to  do  with  archdukes?  Surely 
true  pride  consists  in  knowing  one's  own  order  and 
abiding  by  it.  She  did  know  it.  She  neither  thought 
herself  nor  desired  to  be  thought  a  great  lady.  She  craved 
no  title.  Her  Baptismal  name — HcnrieUe-Marie-Joseph — 
that,  and  no  more,  is  written  on  her  grave-stone.  In  the 
Court  of  the  King  of  Kings,  there  is  rank,  but  not  as  the 
world  sees  it.  If  I  am  found  worthy  to  stand  even 
within  reach  of  her — I  shall  know  then  that  I  have,  in- 
deed, kept  my  birthright.  That  is  my  answer  to  Baron 
Zeuill — to  you." 

"Very  well.  This  is  your  promise  for  the  moment. 
But  would  you  pledge  yourself  to  that  past  all  retreat.-* 
Don  John  of  Austria  was  the  natural  son  of  Charles  V. 
and  a  washerwoman.  Yet  he  became  a  great  Prince. 
He  had  no  foolish  scruples.'' 

"  Do  you  think  my  scruples  foolish  ?  " 

"  I  will  own,  without  any  gasconade,  that  I  had  rather 
see  you  less  reasonable.  It  is  in  ordinary  moments  and 
during  peace  that  one  should  show  prudence  and  fore- 
thought.    But  this  is  a  time    for  impulse,    impetuosity, 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  341 

feckless  courage — fire  !     To  be  candid,  I  detect  in  all  you 
say,  the  influence  of  M.  de  Hausee." 

She  colored  deeply  and  made  no  response, 

•'M.  de  Hausde,"  he  continued,  pressing  what  he 
supposed  was  his  first  considerable  advantage.  "M. 
de  Hausee  is  an  aristocrat  of  aristocrats.  He  has  the 
fanatical  faith  and  all  the  prejudices  of  the  ancient 
Catholic  nobility.  His  father — Henri  Dominique,  Count 
de  Hausee,  as  you  may  be  aware,  renounced  his  rank, 
and  exchanged  the  military  for  the  ecclesiastical  profes- 
sion I  We  know  the  rest.  A  wild  love,  broken  vows, 
remorse,  and  penances — the  most  severe.  M.  Robert  de 
Hausde  has  inherited  the  priestly  nature.  His  life  is 
spent  in  moral  combats.  He  is  not  like  these  other 
youths  who  go  into  Parliament  without  any  political 
training  and  without  any  decided  resolution — unless  to 
make  a  speech  and  to  become  distinguished  !  In  order 
to  win  others,  he  has  resolved  to  conquer,  first,  himself  I 
He  will  have  to  triumph  over  many  public  adversaries. 
Meanwhile,  his  face  is  pale  with  fasts  and  secret  struggles. 
As  I  looked  upon  him,  I  dropped  my  eyes  in  pity  and 
respect.  I  said  to  myself — '  It  is  a  good  Catholic — firm 
in  faith  and  righteous  in  action.  He  will  have  no  hope — 
except  the  hope  of  Heaven.  He  will  love  no  woman 
except  with  the  love  of  Charity.'  But  there  is  another 
passion  in  life — as  strong  and  more  enduring  than  the 
others.  I  mean  the  love  of  domination.  This  he  keeps. 
He  will  win  souls  for  God.     He  rules  yours." 

She  listened  calmly.  When  he  had  finished,  she  made 
the  following  reply, — 

"I  have  never  discussed  the  question  of  my  birth  with 
M.  de  Hausde.  He  would  not  attempt  to  influence  me  in 
the  conduct  of  my  private  affairs.  We  know  each  other, 
in  one  sense,  but  distantly.  I  admire  his  fine  character. 
I  should  value  his  advice  on  any  subject.     It  is  a  sincere 


342  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

pleasure  to  me  to  hear  him  praised.  My  husband  held 
him  in  the  highest  esteem.  Have  you  anything  further 
to  say  to  me  ?  " 

Her  self-possession  commended  Mudara's  allegiance. 
Innocence,  integrity  or  vmselfishness  were  beyond  his 
imagination,  but  this  delicate  girl  of  seventeen  struck 
him,  at  last,  as  a  marvel  of  coldness  and  cunning.  He 
owned  that  the  further  details  of  his  business  would  be 
communicated  by  letter.  He  begged,  however,  to  be 
told  whether  she  intended  to  remain  in  England.  Her 
answer  astonished  him.  She  was  going,  she  said,  as 
soon  as  she  could  travel,  to  the  Convent  at  Tours.  This 
was  the  last  thing  he  desired.  Her  large  fortune  would 
be  found  equally  dangerous  whether  consecrated  to  the 
service  of  God,  or  squandered  on  Royalist  politics. 

"As  M.  de  Hause'e  is  an  old  friend,"  he  said,  "you 
will,  no  doubt,  allow  him,  when  you  fix  your  date  of 
departure,  to  arrange  the  details  of  your  journey.  Per- 
haps he  is  here  to-day  for  that  purpose." 

"I  will  not  trouble  him.  He  is  in  Scotland  with  Lord 
Wight." 

"  Pardon  me.  I  have  this  moment  left  him.  He  is 
with  Lady  Fitz  Rewes. " 

Brigit  lifted  her  hand  to  her  veil  in  such  a  way  that 
Mudara  was  unable  to  enjoy  the  first  success  of  this 
news.  He  could  obtain  no  sight  of  the  change  which 
his  words  had  produced  on  her  countenance.  But  he 
saw,  or  fancied  that  he  saw,  her  whole  figure  tremble. 

"This  is  a  great  act  of  kindness  on  the  part  of  M.  de 
Hausee,"  she  said,  after  a  short  silence.  "  I  hope  they 
told  him  that  I  was  better." 

"Will  you  not  see  him.? "  asked  Mudara, 

"That,"  she  answered,  at  once,  "would  be  unneces- 
sary at  present.     He  would  not  expect  it." 

She  stood  up.     Mudara  felt  bound  to  take  his  leave. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  343 

In  going,  however,  he  stole  a  glance  backwards.  She 
had  resumed  her  seat  and  had  re-opened  the  Breviary. 
Above  the  stillness,  he  heard  her  whispering  words  he 
had  himself  recited  often, — 

"■  Levavi  oculos  nieos  in  monies,  U7ide  veniet  mixiliuni 
mihi.  Auxiliu7n  rneuni  a  Domino,  qui  fecit  caelum  ei  ier- 
ra?n,  Non  det  in  commotio?iem  pedem  tuum  :  neque 
dormitet  qui  custodit  te."  ("I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the 
hills,  from  whence  cometh  my  help.  My  help  cometh 
from  the  Lord,  who  made  Heaven  and  earth.  He  will  not 
suffer  thy  feet  to  be  moved  :  He  that  keepeth  thee  will 
not  slumber.)  * 

Mudara,  however,  had  by  no  means  exhausted  all  his 
resources.  The  reader,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Parflete  had 
no  guilty  passion  to  conceal  and  no  dark  purpose  to 
cover,  will  find  nothing  indicative  of  a  devilish  deceit  in 
the  simple  words  she  had  used  during  the  scene  we  have 
described.  But  truth  will  often  produce,  on  insincere 
hearers,  all  the  effects  of  a  lie.  The  mirror  must  itself  be 
clear  before  it  can  reflect  correctly  a  fair  object.  Mudara, 
incapable  of  honesty,  had  never  yet  found  his  match  among 
scoundrels.  He  could  lead  them  from  falsehood  to  false- 
hood till  they  perished  in  ridicule.  But  before  the  accent 
of  candor  he  stood  bewildered,  irritable,  impotent.  He 
taxed  his  cleverness  in  explaining  the  phenomenon.  He 
could  even  find  the  generosity  to  own  himself  fairly  out- 
witted. And  by  what.''  The  mere  force  of  innocence  .? 
No  :  by  superior  treachery,  f     He  saw,  even  in  the  waver- 

*  The  Roman  Breviary.  Rendered  into  English  by  John,  Marquess  of 
Bttte. 

"■^  I  have  lifted  Jip  my  eyes  to  the  mountains  from  whence  help  shall  come 
to  me.  My  help  is  from  the  Lord,  7vho  made  heaven  and  earth.  May 
he  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved:  neither  let  him  slumber  that  keepeth 
thee." — Douay  version. 

t  As  an  illustration  of  this,  the  following  fragment  from  his  letter  to 
Baron  Zeuill,  may  be  quoted: — "At  the  news  of  Ue  Hausee's  presence 


344  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ing  color  of  Brigit's  cheeks,  the  elaborate  art  of  a  con- 
summate actress.  Such  coolness,  he  thought,  could 
be  the  effect  only  of  a  long  training  for  some  especial 
mission.  The  Church  of  Rome  had  ever  shown  an 
extraordinary  genius  in  choosing,  educating,  and  con- 
trolling her  servants.  This  girl  had  the  blood  of  the 
Carolingians  and  the  beauty  of  a  child  of  love.  She  had 
been  instructed  in  that  exercise  of  self-mastery  which  the 
Catholic  faith  alone  seems  able  to  teach.  She  was  en- 
dowed by  nature  with  the  power  of  winning  hearts,  and, 
by  her  father's  will,  she  had  inherited  a  princely  fortune 
to  support  her  inclinations.  Such  a  being,  surely,  was 
no  mean  prize  for  the  net  of  any  faction  in  society. 
Mudara  had  called  her  a  Judith.  But  the  spell  of  Judith, 
he  reflected,  had  rested  not  less  in  her  reputation  for  virtue 
than  in  her  bodily  fairness.  He  saw  at  last,  that,  unless 
discredit  and  substantial  scandal  could  be  cast  on  his 
ward's  character,    she  would  remain,    till  the  end  of  her 

in  Catesby,  Madame's  sullen  indifference  gave  place  to  an  ungovernable 
agitation.  She  was  so  altered  that  I  would  not  have  known  her  for  the 
same  woman.  But  all  this  was  outward.  What  did  our  Judith  say? 
You  will  scarcely  believe  me  when  I  tell  you.  'This  is  a  great  act  of 
kindness  on  the  part  of  M.  de  Hausee.  Pray  thank  him.  It  will  not 
be  necessary  to  see  him.'  Such  audacity  deserves  to  succeed.  Of 
course,  they  are  in  secret  communication.  I  find  much  to  detest  in  her, 
but,  on  my  honor,  more  to  admire.  Her  self-recollection  never  fails. 
She  has  an  answer  cut-and-dried  for  every  question.  She  would  as  soon 
die  as  live,  or  live  as  die.  She  knows  no  fear  but  the  fear  of  God. 
'  Her  sandals  ravish  the  eyes,  her  beauty  makes  the  soul  a  captive,  with 
a  sword  she  will  cut  off  your  head.'  De  Hausee  is  the  ascetic  to  master 
her.  You  are  wrong,  every  one,  about  Castrillon.  He  is  too  pretty  and 
sensual  for  such  a  termagant.  Our  one  hope  is  De  Hausee.  All  his 
interests  are  in  England.  He  has  been  elected  a  Member  of  Parliament, 
Disraeli  is  disposed  to  favor  him.  And  Disraeli  knows  how  to  control 
an  enthusiast.  She  must  marry  De  Hausee.  But  he,  too,  is  a  furtive 
character.  Prim  believes  that  he  is,  at  the  very  least,  a  deacon.  I 
hope  to  God,  not." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


345 


days,  a  living  power  among  the  very  forces  he  was  most 
eager  to  see  damaged.  As  he  considered  his  plan  of 
action  he  decided,  that,  in  the  simple  nature  of  Lady  Fitz 
Rewes,  he  would  find  perhaps  the  most  useful  instrument 
for  his  scheme.  She  exerted  an  influence — the  more 
cogent  because  it  \vas  unintended — over  Brigit  and  also 
over  De  Hausee. 

Pensee  and  Robert  were  still  waiting  where  Mudara 
had  left  them.  At  the  first  sound  of  his  returning  steps, 
they  both  went  forward  to  meet  him.  His  implacable 
countenance  could  neither  betray  the  sentiments  he  felt, 
nor  assume  those  which  he  did  not  feel.  But  with  an 
admirable  manner,  he  assured  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  that  her 
friend  was,  if  sorrowful,  most  prudent,  and  if  ill,  on  a  sure 
way  to  recovery.  Orange  did  not  speak.  The  three  re- 
turned to  the  Hall  in  silence.  It  was  not  until  they 
reached  the  open  windows  of  the  morning-room  that 
Mudara  found  an  opportunity  to  beg  his  hostess  for  the 
favor  of  a  private  interview.  A  look  passed  between  them. 
He  managed  to  throw  a  significant  glance  at  Robert. 
She  understood.  She  bowed  her  head.  A  few  minutes 
later,  as  she  stooped  to  admire  a  rose-bush,  she  said, — 

"  You  must  both  remain  to  dinner." 

Orange,  she  knew,  was  obliged  to  return  that  evening 
to  London.  The  carriage  which  was  to  take  him  to  the 
station  stood,  even  at  that  moment,  before  the  door.  She 
showed,  therefore,  no  astonishment  when  he  declined, 
with  deep  regret,  her  invitation.  But  Mudara,  to  her 
affected  surprise,  expressed  the  pleasure  he  would  have  in 
availing  himself  of  her  kindness.  He  had,  he  said,  some 
important  letters  to  write.  Her  farewell  to  Robert  was 
cold.  She  felt  a  sudden  terror  lest  Mudara  should  divine 
her  secret — that  poor,  sad  secret,  her  love  for  her  uncle's 
Secretary.  The  Agent's  eyes  were  piercing  and  pitiless. 
They  devoured,  with  cynical  hunger,   the  very  tissue  of 


346  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

her  soul.      He  would  never  understand  friendship  or  .   .  . 
devotion  .  .   .   or  .   .   .   about  Lionel. 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Orange,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  we 
shall  see  you  sometimes,  in  the  Spring — when  I  come  to 
town." 

There  was  thus  nothing  left  for  him  save  to  make  his 
adieux,  and  depart  with  the  best  grace  he  could  exhibit. 
He  concealed  his  reluctance,  his  consternation,  his  dis- 
trust. For  a  cruel  instant,  he  had  been  pierced  by  the 
suspicion  that  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  was  playing  him  false. 
But  a  noble  mind  will  always  resent,  as  a  base  temptation, 
any  doubt  of  a  tried  friend's  fidelity.  Robert  would  not 
look  again  at  her  face.  He  remembered  her  as  she  always 
seemed  when  they  were  alone.  He  bowed,  he  touched 
her  shrinking  hand,  and  he  was  gone. 

Lady  Fitz  Rewes  beckoned  to  Mudara  and  led  the  way 
into  the  large  saloon  from  the  windows  of  which  he  had 
made  his  first  intrusion  on  to  the  lawn.  It  was  a  stately 
room  furnished  in  the  style  associated  with  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne. 

"And  now,"  said  Pense'e,  summoning  up  her  haughti- 
est air,  "  what  is  your  business  ?  " 

Mudara  put  the  matter  briefly.  Mrs.  Parflete,  he  said, 
had  been  left  with  ample  means  but  in  a  dangerous  posi- 
tion. She  had  no  relatives.  Her  heroic  nature  exposed 
her  to  the  machinations  of  every  religious  or  political 
fanatic.  Spain  was  in  a  state  of  revolution.  France, 
under  the  surface,  was  a  witches'  cauldron.  Italy  was 
no  better.  For  a  lady  so  young,  beautiful  and  wealthy  as 
Madame  his  ward,  England  was  the  safest — the  one — re- 
fuge. But  she  needed  a  lawful  protector.  To  be  plain, 
she  ought  to  marry.  She  was,  of  course,  too  high-minded 
to  display  a  marked  preference  for  any  particular  gentle- 
man in  the  large  circle  of  her  respectful  admirers.  M.  de 
Hausee,  however — " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  347 

"The  very  man  of  all  others  who  would  deserve  her," 
exclaimed  Lady  Fitz  Rewes,  seizing  the  excuse  to  seem 
disinterested. 

"Then  why  not  bring  them  to  their  senses?  They 
might  be  married  privately.  The  fact  need  not  yet  be 
made  public.  But  I  must  feel  that  she  has  a  defender. 
The  marriage  with  Parflete  was  an  atrocious — a  calamitous 
— mistake.  It  broke  the  Archdukes  heart.  We  must 
make  her  happy  this  time." 

"We  must  make  two  people  happy,"  said  Pensee. 
"But  you  will  see  that  the  subject  is  very  delicate.  How 
can  one  interfere .''  " 

"  Bring  them  together." 

"  He  has  gone  to  Scotland." 

"Follow  him  to  Scotland.  Insist  that  she  needs  the 
air." 

"That  might  be  managed,  certainly." 

"Manage  it." 

"I  will  do  my  best.  I  really  feel  sure  that  you  are 
right.     There  is  no  time  to  be  lost." 

"None.  But  one  word — don't  let  her  suspect  that  she 
will  meet  M.  de  Hausee  in  Scotland,  She  is  naturally 
elusive.     Use  all  your  discretion." 

"I  will." 

"Thank  you.  Then  I  need  not  trespass  further  on 
your  time.      I  will  not  stay  to  dinner." 

He  kissed  her  hand.  She  rang  the  bell,  and  he  bowed 
himself  out,  by  no  means  dissatisfied  with  his  day's  work. 


348  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Robert,  as  we  have  seen,  had  told  himself  that  he  had 
perfect  faith  in  Pensde's  loyalty.  Yet  he  could,  without 
injustice,  feel  small  confidence  in  her  wisdom.  Hesita- 
tion, where  he  was  once  resolved,  had  no  part  in  his 
character.  He  dismissed  the  phaeton  before  he  had  driven 
half-a-mile.  He  told  the  coachman  he  preferred  to  walk. 
He  did  walk,  but  not  in  the  direction  of  the  town.  Plung- 
ing into  the  plantations,  he  ran  back  unobserved,  swiftly, 
lightly,  to  the  thick  wood  by  the  ruins  of  Catesby  Church. 
From  this  he  made  his  way  down  to  the  Lady  Chapel. 
The  door  stood  open.  He  entered,  fearing  horribly  that 
he  would  find  it  empty.     But  she  was  there. 

"Brigit!" 

"Robert!" 

"  Have  I  frightened  you  ? " 

•'  No.     1  knew  you  were  coming." 

"Why.?" 

"Because  you  always  come  when  I  ask  our  Blessed 
Lady  to  send  you." 

"Then  this  is  a  miracle." 

' '  What  else  ?     Where  shall  we  go  ? " 

"Will  you  come  with  me  ?  " 

"Of  course." 

"  But  away  from  this  place — to  London  ?  " 

'  •'  I  trust  you  in  all  things. " 

' '  Can  you  run  ?  " 

"Like  the  wind." 

"Then  give  me  your  hand." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  349 

"Put  my  Breviary  in  your  pocket.  Yes,  you  may  l<iss 
it  first.  It's  a  blessed  book.  It  belonged  to  a  Saint. 
She  wasn't  canonized.  Now  wait  till  I  take  a  long  breath. 
Oh,  Robert  !  I  love  to  see  you.  But — are  we  to  run  to 
London  .?  " 

"  No,  angel,  we  must  take  a  train." 

"I  am  ready.  Where  shall  we  go  when  we  get  to 
London .'' " 

"  I  will  take  you  to  your  Convent." 

She  clapped  her  hands  : 

"  But,  dear  Pense'e  ?     What  will  she  think  ?" 

"  All  is  fair  in  war  and — " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  hastily,  with  a  blush.  "  Mudara 
means  war.  I  will  write  Pensde  a  letter.  That  will  do. 
Which  hand  will  you  have.'  " 

"The  left.      Follow  me." 

They  hastened  out  and  ran — for  their  lives — not  towards 
Catesby,  but,  at  Brigit's  suggestion,  toward  Cottingden, 
a  village  further  inland  where  they  might  hire  a  carriage 
and  drive  to  the  county  town. 

"There,"  she  panted,  "we  can  catch  the  London 
express." 

Darkness  was  fast  approaching.  They  could  see,  in 
the  distance,  the  yachts  at  anchor  off  Catesby  Harbor — 
their  lights  burning  brightly  like  large  stars  fallen  from 
the  firmament  above.  The  hills  around,  soft  with  a  pur- 
ple bloom,  seemed  like  the  spread  pinions  of  a  winged 
host.  A  rich,  Autumnal  breeze — as  strong  as  wine,  as 
pure  as  sheaves  of  wheat,  swept  through  the  silvery  pop- 
lars and  sent  the  white-owl,  screeching,  to  his  mate.  But 
the  owl's  scream  had  no  terror  for  the  blissful  fugi- 
tives. 

Once  they  paused  to  rest. 

"  I  feared  for  your  safety,"  said  Robert.  "  Hereafter, 
I  will  take  care  of  you  myself." 


350  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

She  blushed  and  said  nothing. 

"And  then,"  he  added,  half-laughing,  "  I  think  I  must 
kill  a  few  people." 

She  showed  pleasure  but  observed,  gravely, — 

"  You  must  not  affront  God.  I  am  afraid  duels  are 
wicked." 

"No,  no.      Don't  say  so." 

"You  might  be  wounded." 

' '  That  decides  me.  Do  you  think  I  am  a  worse 
swordsman  than  Castrillon  .''  " 

"Dear  Robert!  ....  Did  you  ever  see  a  lovelier 
cloud  ?     The  earth  is  very  beautiful." 

"  Perfect.  .  .  But  Castrillon's  fencing  is  nothing  re- 
markable. Besides,  it  is  not  a  question  of  skill.  It  is  a 
question  of  honor.     You  must  see  that." 

"  I  see  you." 

He  looked  at  her,  wistfully. 

"I  wish  you  didn't,"  said  he. 

"But  you  are  quite  handsome  again.  You  are,  truly. 
{  should  say — even  handsomer. " 

"Dearest,  I  think  we  ought  to  go  on." 

"This  is  a  happy  time,  Robert.  Let  us  remember  this 
place  always." 

They  resumed  their  journey  and  reached  Cottingden 
at  half-past  eight.  There  Robert  hired  a  carriage,  and, 
as  Brigit  stepped  into  it,  she  said, — 

"Dear  Pensee  !  She  has  been  so  kind  to  me.  I  wish 
I  could  write  to  her  now.  But  I  suppose  I  must  wait  till 
I  get  to  London." 

The  village  was  a  little  cluster  of  white  houses  scattered 
round  a  ditch  and  a  green. 

"What  a  charming  place  !  "  exclaimed  Brigit,  as  they 
drove  rapidly  away.      "  I  could  stay  there  forever." 

"  So  could  I,"  said  he,  not  troubhng  to  look  back. 

"  With  you — of  course — "  she  added. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  351 

"Of  course,  with  you,"  he  said. 

"  Don't  you  miss,  "she  said,  suddenly,  "  the  little  shrines 
and  crosses  by  the  road-side?  I  have  not  seen  one  in 
England.  Let  us  come  here  some  day,  and  buy  a  piece 
of  land,  and  build  an  altar  to  our  Blessed  Lady." 

This,  unhappily,  reminded  him  that  he  was  poor.  But 
he  had  courage. 

"I  shall  hope,  please  God,"  said  he,  "to  build  many 
— that  is,  in  time." 

"  If  I  fall  asleep,  will  you  wake  me  up .?  I  have  not 
slept  well  for  a  longtime.  1  used  to  feel  frightened.  But 
now  you  are  with  me,  and  everything  is  different.  Shall 
we  say  the  Rosary  .-•     You  begin — " 

When  it  came  to  her  turn  to  reply,  she  could  just  mur- 
mur— '^  Sancta  Maria,  Maier  Dei,  ora  pro  nobis  peccaiori- 
biis,  nunc  et  in  hora  mortis  nostrcB.     Amen!' 

^^  Ave  Marie."  said  he,  " gralia  pletia  :  Dominus  tecum.  : 
henedicta  tu.  ..."  He  whispered  the  rest.  For  the  weary 
girl  had  sunk  into  a  deep  slumber.  Her  head  rested 
against  the  side  of  the  carriage.  Her  hands  still  clasped 
her  Rosary.  Her  little  feet,  touching  each  other,  were 
almost  concealed  by  her  long  skirt.  It  is  during  sleep 
that  the  human  countenance  will  show  its  likeness  to  the 
soul.  Lines  become  luminous,  and  the  tranquil  features 
yield  the  secret  of  their  training.  Watch  a  man,  or  a 
woman,  sleeping,  and  it  will  be  your  fault,  not  Nature's, 
if  you  are  deceived.  Brigit's  face  in  repose  had  the  inno- 
cence one  sees  rarely — even  in  young  children.  Her 
mouth  showed  sadness  and  a  certain  self-repression.  The 
delicate  cheeks  were  perhaps  too  hollow  for  perfect  health. 
Their  tiush  had  a  brilliancy  too  rare.  As  Robert  watched 
her,  his  heart  suffered  that  strange  agony  which  attends 
all  intense  affection.  To  love  is  to  know  the  sacrifices 
which  eternity  exacts  from  life. 

"Brio^it  !  "  he  said,  in  sudden  terror,      "  Brigit !  " 


352  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

He  had  forgotten  the  sound  of  her  voice.  Her  words 
came  back  to  him,  but  their  tone — the  lovely,  rippling 
tone  full  of  melody  and  pathos — was  not  to  be  recalled. 
What  if  he  should  never  hear  it  again  ? 

"Brigit!" 

She  opened  her  eyes,  smiled  and  said, — 

"Is  this  the  station  ? '" 

"No,"  said  he,  "but — I  wanted  to  hear  you  speak." 

"Dear  Robert  !     Men  are  like  children." 

Her  hand  stole  into  his. 

"Try  and  sleep,  too,"  she  said:  "I  will  tell  you  my 
little  story  about  the  pigeon.  Once  upon  a  time  there 
was  a  holy  woman  who —     Or  shall  I  sing?  " 

But  she  was  too  drowsy.     The  song  slept  on  her  lips. 

Her  head  sank  back  against  the  carriage  and  a  silent 
sadness  weighed  once  more  upon  her  eyelids.  Pres- 
ently he  heard  her  sob,  and  saw  tears  stealing  down 
her  cheeks. 

"  Mon  pauvre  p6re  est  mort,"  she  murmured,  "  priez 
pour  lui.  II  est  mort  a  la  pointe  du  jour.  II  me  parlait, 
puis  il  parlait  aux  anges.      Priez  pour  lui." 

Again,  Robert  called  her.     This  time  she  woke  fully. 

"  Oh,  Robert !  "  she  said,  "  what  was  I  saying  in  my 
sleep  ? " 

"  You  said,"  he  answered,  "  mon  pauvre  pere  est 
mort.  Priez  pour  lui.  II  est  mort  a  la  pointe  du  jour. 
II  me  parlait,  puis  il  parlait  aux  anges.     Priez  pour  lui." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"All." 

"My  mother,  long  ago,  taught  me  that,"  she  said. 
"It  always  makes  me  cry.  But  you  are  sure  I  said 
nothing  else?  " 

"  Quite  sure." 

She  drew  her  veil  closer,  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said, — 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  353 

"Promise  me  never  to  ask  any  questions  about  my 
father.     Because  I  may  not  answer  them." 

"  Dearest,  I  know  the  story.  Your  husband  told  me, 
long-  ago,  when  we  first  met." 

"Then  he  knew  .?     I  never  guessed  that." 

Those  who  have  substituted  emotions  of  the  blood  for 
emotions  of  the  soul  could  never  understand  the  anguish 
of  disappointed  trust.  Brigit  was  finding,  one  by  one, 
the  many  links  of  Parfiete's  treachery.  It  seemed  as 
though  that  harassing  chain  would  hang  forever  on  her 
life. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  secret,"  said  the  poor  child:  "I 
promised  my  father  that  I  w^ould  never  tell.  Perhaps 
my  husband  made  no  promise.  ...  At  any  rate,  I 
must  not  have  hard  and  miserable  feelings  about  him. 
The  issue  of  things  is  known  to  Our  Blessed  Lord.  I  am 
going  through  what  must  be  gone  through.  But  I  think 
no  one  ever  had  such  kind  friends  as  I  have.  I  am  even 
thankful,  in  one  way,  that  Wrexham  told  you  the  story. 
I  have  never  wished  there  should  be  any  reserve  between 
us — it  is  most  repugnant  to  my  nature  to  conceal  things." 

"That  is  why  I  thought  it  better  to  let  you  know  that 
you  could  speak  openly  with  me." 

"Thank  you.  It  has  always  been  a  great  burden  on 
my  mind.     Now  it  is  gone." 

She  leaned  forward,  touched  him  softly,  and  looked  up 
into  his  face. 

"  But  there  is  something  else,"  she  said. 

"And  that?" 

"  I  want  to  write  a  letter  to  Pensee." 

The  carriage  stopped.  They  had  at  last  reached  the 
railway-station.  Gayety  had  held  her  court  in  the  little 
town  all  day.  The  streets  were  lively  with  a  laughing 
crowd  of  lads  and  girls  returning  homeward,  to  different 
parts  of  the  country,  from  a  gala.  They  pushed,  and 
23 


354  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

joked,  and  jostled  each  other,  or  enjoyed,  with  strained 
cheeks,  the  lingering-  inarticulate  delight  of  sugar  hulls 
eyes.  Others,  more  demure,  sang  in  strong  harsh  voices 
"Sweet  Belle  Mahone,"  and  "The  Gipsy's  Warning," 
and  "  The  Death  of  Nelson."  The  crowd  streamed  into 
the  building,  and  over  the  bridge  to  the  "Down" 
platform.  No  one  noticed  the  two  travellers  bound  for 
London. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  355 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

Robert's  resolution,  winged  with  thoughts  of  Brigit's 
possible  danger,  had  never  wavered.  Yet  he  realized, 
that,  while  acts  of  chivalry  were  daily  done,  they  were 
seldom  indeed  explained  by  a  chivalrous  method.  In 
addition  to  the  careful  narrative  we  have  already  seen, 
he  wrote  a  letter  to  Lord  Reckage,  in  which  he  describes, 
with  much  clearness,  the  whole  fhght  to  town.  He  men- 
tions that  there  were  three  other  passengers  in  their  com- 
partment : — 

A  man,  his  wife,  and  another  man,  perhaps  her  brother. 
Mrs.  Parflete  was  exhausted,  and  slept  till  we  reached  our  jour- 
ney's end.  The  Convent,  as  you  may  remember,  is  some  dis- 
tance from  Victoria.  At  nine,  all  the  nuns  retire  to  rest. 
Nevertheless,  we  drove  there.  It  was  approaching  midnight. 
There  was  not  a  sound,  nor  a  light  in  the  whole  building.  We 
rang  several  times.  We  could  get  no  answer.  Madame  de- 
clared that  she  would  sit  on  the  door-step  till  the  morning.  But 
presently,  I  caught  a  pair  of  eyes  looking  out  at  us  through  the 
grille.     Madame  spoke.     A  woman  answered. 

"  Soeur  Mane-Agnes  !  "  cried  Madame,  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy, 
"  ma  soeur,  c'est  moi." 

"  Tiens,  tiens  !     C'est  Madame  Parflete.     Tiens,  tiens  !  " 

I  heard  the  bars  drawn  back.  The  door  was  opened,  and  I 
saw  a  fresh-faced  nun  half-asleep  but  smiling  on  Madame  with 
that  ineffable  bonte  de  casur  for  which  we  have,  unfortunately, 
no  word. 

There  was,  I  thought,  a  certain  angelic  humor  in  her  eyes 
when  she  expressed  her  regret  that  the  Convent  could  afford  no 
accommodation  for  Monsieur.  Apparently,  she  inferred  that  I 
was  Parflete.  Madame  wished  me  good-night,  and,  in  a 
moment,  happy  nun  and  weary  lady  had  both  disappeared. 
But  Madame  spoke  to  me  through  the  grille. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  she.     "  I  am  so  happy  now.     I  shall  write 


356  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

to  Pens^e  to-morrow.  Dear  Pens^e,  T  know  she  will  be  anxious. 
But  I  need  not  tell  her  about  you." 

"  Madame  !  "  said  Soeur  Marie-Agn^s  ;  "  il  est  tard." 

"I  come,  ma  soeur.     I  come." 

And  that  was  all.  .   .   . 

What  is  to  happen  now  ?  I  leave  you  to  imagine  my  anxieties. 
She  is  free.  But  I  Iiave  never  yet  been  able  to  picture  her  free. 
I  have  always  seen  her — there,  and  myself,  miles  distant  and 
oceans  below,  here.  Her  beauty  promises  to  be  extraordinary. 
Think  of  her  age  ?  Seventeen.  Does  the  child  know  her  own 
heart  ?  Yet  the  indecency  oj^suggesting  marriage  at  this  mo- 
ment !  It  is  out  of  the  question.  I  must  be  patient.  ...  I 
walked  home. 

Poor  Wight,  in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  was  waiting 
up  for  me,  with  a  whole  company  of  his  cronies.  There  were 
old  Fauconberg,  and  Mrs.  St.  Kentigern,*  Dean  Ethbin,  Valen- 
tine Vivian,  and  Penborough.  They  were  discussing  Disraeli. 
Let  me  give  you  the  talk. 

"What  I  ask  myself  is  this — "said  the  Dean,  looking  with 
reverence  at  his  own  gaiters — "  is  the  man  sincere?  " 

"I  know  one  thing,"  said  Mrs.  St.  Kentigern.  "The  Duke 
of  Mercia  can't  stand  him.  The  Duke  is  going  to  send  in  his 
resignation  to  the  Committee  of  the  Capitol  Club.  He  is  simply 
furious.     He  is  going  abroad." 

"Where  did  you  hear  that  ?  "  asked  Valentine  Vivian. 

"  The  Duchess  was  at  my  milliner's  this  morning.  "  I  want," 
says  she,  "  as  soon  as  possible,  a  bright-looking  bonnet  :  such  a 
bonnet  as  I  could  wear  in  Rome  next  month."  There  is  proof 
conclusive.  She  has  never  left  the  Duke  in  her  life  :  she  is  going 
to  Italy  as  soon  as  possible  :  she  wants  a  brigh t-lookinghoxiVioX. 
If  that  does  not  spell  resignation,  I  don't  know  English," 

"  Then  the  Duke's  a  bigger  fool  than  I  thought,"  said  Wight. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  St.  Kentigern.  "Where  is  the  Tory 
party  ?  It  is  nowliere.  Toryism,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh  of 
profound  desolation,  "  is  now  but  the  mere  negation  of 
Whiggism." 

"  The  landed  interest  will  rise,"  said  the  Dean,  lifting  up  his 
voice  as  a  ghostly  comforter,  "and  the  monied  interest — the 
great  support  of  Whiggism — must  decline." 

"But  first,"  said  Penborough,  "the  Reformation  must  take 
its  full  revenge  !  The  Abbeys  which  were  given  as  bribes  to 
the  nobility  will  be  sold  to  the  Railway  Companies  for  Hotels. 

*  Mrs.  St.  Kentigern   was  Lord  Wight's  half-sister — by  his   mother's 
second  marriage. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  357 

Every  great  nobleman's  country-seat  will  become  an  Hotel. 
Since  the  people  may  not  have  their  own  with  God,  they  will 
take  it  without  Him.  Where  there  was  once  an  Abbot,  you  will 
soon  find  an  obliging  manager,  and  where  there  were  holy 
monks,  there  shall  be  Swiss  waiters  !  " 

"  How  shocking  !  "  said  Mrs.  St.  Kentigern. 

"  I  dread  flippancy,"  said  the  Dean.  "  It  is  the  enemy  of  the 
future.  But  I  do  not  share  in  the  new  and  hypochondriacal 
sentimentality  over  ruined  Abbeys  and  the  like.  A  Monastery 
was  the  Mediaeval  type  of  our  modern  Club.  The  obligations 
and  duties,  however,  were  subscribed,  nominally,  to  God. 
There  were  rule^  of  discipline  and  certain  vows  incumbent  on 
each  member.  They  lived  in  a  comfortable  house  of  supremely 
beautiful  architecture.  They  looked  out  upon  picturesque  land- 
scapes, and  enjoyed  well-filled  Libraries.  They  could  spend 
their  time  in  prayer,  in  manual  labor,  in  works  of  charity,  in 
tending  the  sick,  in  educating,  aiter  a  fashion,  the  young.  It  is 
notorious  that  many  of  the  monks  were  unrivalled  sportsmen. 
I  daresay  there  were  often  good,  even  sincere,  men  among 
them.  But  I  really  cannot  see  why  the  ruins  of  some  old  Con- 
vent should  appear  more  sacred  incur  eyes  than  the  nice  clean 
Athenaeum  !  I  really  cannot.  I  have  small  sympathy  with 
these  dismal  young  gentlemen  who  contrast  romantic  pictures 
of  ancient  virtue  with  the  supposed  degeneracy  of  our  own  days." 

Lord  Wight,  whenever  I  am  present  with  him,  in  Protestant 
society,  always  makes  it  a  rule  to  speak  of  politics,  dogs,  horses, 
or  yachting — in  order  to  keep  the  conversation  free  from  any  at- 
tacks on  the  Catholic  faith.  He  became  most  uneasy  during  the 
Dean's  harangue. 

"I  can't  get  over  this  news  about  the  Duke,"  he  exclaimed. 
"  He  is  sometimes  noisy,  but  generally  civil." 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  said  Fauconberg,  "  that  he  belonged 
to  the  world  of  men  who  are  content  with  a  social  in  default  of 
a  higher  unity.  It  is  always  a  pity  to  make  a  fuss.  You  don't 
get  anywhere.     You  only  get  out  of  everything." 

"  If  one  could  only  establish  an  opposition  on  another  prin- 
ciple of  combination  than  that  of  Whig  or  Tory  !  "  sighed  Mrs. 
St.  Kentigern. 

"  I  heard  a  fellow  describe  Disraeli  as  the  vilest  rag  that  ever 
fluttered  on  a  garbage  heap,"  said  Valentine  Vivian. 

The  Dean  clasped  his  hands,  "What  came  from  the  mouth 
of  a  vulgar  might  pass  in  the  mind  of  a  better  man  !  "  said  he. 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  judge  of  Disraeli's  politics,''  said  Vivian, 
"but  I  cannot  stand  his  novels.  Does  one  ever  hear  such  talk 
anywhere  ?     He  has  been  in  very  good  society,  too.     H«   has 


358  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

met  people.  He  knows  the  men  and  women  we  all  know — in  a 
dim,  dinner-party  sort  of  way,  it  is  true — but  still  he  knows  them. 
That's  the  extraordinary  part  of  the  whole  thing.     So  very  odd." 

"  He's  an  idealist,"  explained  Penborough,  solemnly. 

"  I  like  my  idealism  in  poetry — not  when  I  want  an  hour's 
light  reading  !  "  said  Vivian.     "  It's  a  nuisance  in  a  novel." 

"  But  Disraeli  is  a  foreigner,"  said  Mrs.  St.  Kentigern  ;  "  he 
is  not  one  of  ourselves,  is  he  ?  Now,  if  I  were  to  write  a  novel 
about  English  society,  it  would  not  be  in  the  least  like  Coningsby, 
would  it  ?  " 

We  all  shook  our  heads. 

"  1  believe,  all  the  same,"  said  Fauconberg,  "that  Dizzy  will 
be  the  next  Prime  Minister." 

This  was  too  much  for  the  Dean.  He  rose  at  once.  It  was, 
in  fact,  the  signal  tor  a  general  retreat.  Each  member  of  the 
party  expressed  the  wish  that  Lord  Wight  would  enjoy  himself 
in  Scotland.  Penborough,  in  leaving,  managed  to  whisper  in 
my  ear, — 

"  Does  Dizzy  know  that  he  was  born  solely  to  provide  light 
literature  for  Valentine  Vivian's  odd  moments  ?  .  .   ." 

I  hope  some  of  this  may  amuse  you.  But  it  seemed  strange 
to  me  after  my  long  day  of  fierce  temptations  and  anxiety.  Yet, 
such  is  the  perversity  of  human  nature,  that  the  scene  in  that 
close  room,  with  Lord  Wight  swollen  up  with  dropsy  and  Mrs. 
St.  Kentigern  nodding  in  her  wig,  seemed  real  .  .  .  and  the 
quiet  Convent,  and  Madame's  sweet  beautiful  face,  and  my  love 
and  my  unhappiness — and  all  my  struggles — a  dream.  ...  It  is 
one  thing  to  cherish  your  ideals  in  solitude  ;  it  is  quite  another 
thing  to  keep  even  one  of  them  in  the  turmoil  and  twaddle  of 
society.  .  .  .  Wight  once  told  me  that  a  big  London  dinner- 
party— where  one  met  every  one  and  heard  everything — was 
quite  enough  to  upset  his  theology  for  a  month.  I  reminded  him 
that  theology  was  not,  perhaps,  his  strongest  point. 

"  True,"  said  he,  ••  but  I  even  forget  Mary  Stuart  .  .  .  and 
begin  to  think  that  Elizabeth  and  that  villain  Cecil  were  a  sensi- 
ble, good-natured  pair,  without  any  nonsense  about  'em  !  So 
then  I  have  to  swim  through  Isaiah  for  a  month  or  two — afin 
de  s avoir  a  quoi  in  en  tenir." 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  letter  is  sensible  or  legible.  To- 
day (it  is  already  morning),  Lord  Wight  and  I  leave  London  for 
Slatrach  Castle. 

I  have  read  this  over.  Miserable  indeed  is  the  fate  of  the 
double-minded.  Why  do  I  pretend  that  the  question  of  mar- 
riage is,  at  this  moment,  impossible  ?  It  may  be  inconvenient. 
But  my  heart  is  set  upon  it.     Men  attach  an  undue  importance 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  359 

to  this  or  that  point  in  received  notions  of  etiqicette.  We  hap- 
pen to  be  placed  in  an  age  of  the  world  which  is  conspicuous 
for  the  decency  of  its  manners.  That  is  to  say,  so  long  as  one 
behaves  what  is  called  "  decently,"  or  "  v;:th  common  prudence," 
one  need  not  trouble  much  about  higher  considerations.  But 
we  are  by  nature  what  we  are.  We  like,  too,  to  be  what  we 
are.  I  don't  wish  to  reach  that  stage  of  self-suppression  when 
one  becomes  self-less.  Till  we  have  done  something,  we  have 
done  nothing,  and,  so  long  as  an  act  is  not  in  itself  sinful, 
I  cannot  stay  supinely  wondering  how  much  I  may  lose  or 
gain  by  attempting  it.  The  great,  the  sole  point,  is  this — have 
I  a  decided  wish  in  the  matter  ?  have  I  any  wish  at  all  in  the 
matter  ?  Almighty  God  has  given  us  two  whole  worlds,  but 
only  one  Faith — millions  of  fellow-mortals,  and  only  Ten  Com- 
mandments. Our  opportunities  and  liberties  are  thus  enormous. 
They  were  meant  to  be  used.  Now  what  is  my  present  case  .'' 
The  Parflete  marriage  was,  in  reality,  a  solemn  betrothal — 
nothing  more.  Parflete  is  now  dead.  This  fact  has  now  been 
established  beyond  dispute.  Madame — a  girl  of  seventeen — is, 
in  etiquette,  his  widow.  Custom  would  say,  "Wait,  at  all 
events,  for  a  year  or  two."  As  if  patience  were  the  one  thing  on 
earth  to  be  remembered  !  At  that  rate  I  shall  tind  obstacles  for 
every  step  in  life.  But  again.  A  hasty  marriage  reflects  rather 
on  the  bride  than  on  the  bridegroom.  That,  I  admit,  is  a  real 
difficulty.  Yet  even  this  becomes  slight  on  examination. 
Madame  has  no  parents  and  not  a  relative.  She  is  her  own  mis- 
tress. She  is  in  peculiar  circumstances  of  some  danger.  She 
needs  a  protector.  Of  course  I  do  not  deserve  her.  No  man 
could  deserve  her.  But  with  women,  thank  God,  it  is  never  a 
question  of  deserts.  They  are  won,  I  think,  rather  by  determin- 
ation. I  have  made  up  my  mind.  I  can  exist,  but  I  cannot /zV^, 
without  her.  This  is  not  a  struggle  for  air.  This  is  a  struggle 
for  soul  and  body.  And  I  mean  to  stand  my  ground.  She  is 
impetuous,  enthusiastic,  superb.  As  for  "courting"  her — one 
might  as  well  try  to  court  the  North  Wind.  She  is  "  a  vapor  of 
the  power  of  God."  And  I  love  her.  And,  right  or  wrong, 
there's  an  end  of  it. 

When  he  had  finished  this  letter,  he  extinguished  the 
lamp,  and  found  that  the  room  was  still  light,  but  with 
the  morning.  It  was  already  time  to  dress  for  the  journey 
to  Scotland. 


36©  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER    XXVn. 

Lord  Wight  was  already  seated  at  the  breakfast  table 
when  Orange  joined  him. 

"  Poor  Marion  and  old  Ethbin  and  the  rest  are  dear 
people,"  said  his  lordship,  "but  they  are  getting  on  in 
years,  and  I  find  them  very  tiresome.  I  am  glad  I  didn't 
ask  them  up  to  Slatrach.  lis  oni  bien  lies  niiseres.  Their 
ailments  seem  inexhaustible.  I  have  as  much  as  I  can 
stand  with  my  own  dropsy.  I  won't  be  bored  by  Valen- 
tine Vivian's  perfectly  unnecessary  stomach.  He  says  he 
can  eat  nothing  now  but  spoon-meat.  As  if  that  matters 
to  me.  As  if  it  could  matter  to  anybody — except  his  cook. 
How  is  Pensee  }  " 

"She  seemed  well,"  said  Orange  :  "  she  sent  you  her 
love." 

"  And  the  children  .?  " 

"I  didn't  see  them." 

"What  a  pity!  The  two — with  their  mother — make 
such  a  pretty  picture.  Millais  has  promised  to  do  them. 
But  I  hope,"  he  added,  flushing  a  little  lest  he  should  seem 
indiscreet,  "I  hope  you  found  Madame  de  Parflete  better  ?  " 

"Much  better.  I  fear,  however,  that  her  illness  has 
been  a  great  anxiety  to  Lady  Fitz  Rewes." 

"No  !  no  !  I  feel  sure  she  was  only  too  happy  to  be 
of  the  least  service  to  the  poor  young  widow.  But  that 
fellow's  suicide  was  a  very  good  thing.  He  was  wholly 
unworthy  of  his  wife.  Pensde  writes  me  that  she  is  the 
most  charming  creature — indeed,  distinguished  in  every 
way.     Pens6e  is  grateful  for   a  friend — she  has  had  »o 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  361 

much  trouble,  poor  darling.  Fitz  Rewes  was  sucha  loss. 
As  a  bachelor  he  won  every  heart,  but  no  man's  man- 
hood is  thoroughly  completed  until  he  becomes  che/de 
tribu,  the  head  of  a  home."  He  threw  Robert  a  sly,  exceed- 
ingly cautious  glance,  to  which  the  young  man  replied  by 
blushing  to  the  eyes. 

"  Would  you  mind,"  he  asked,  "if  I  were  to  go  by  a 
later  train  to-day  ?" 

"Mind.?  It  would  upset  everything.  I  must  have 
some  one  to  talk  to  the  Princes." 

"But  they  are  both  very  good  talkers  themselves. 
Besides,  you  will  have  a  set  topic  for  discussion." 

"Yes,  but  not  all  day.  I  cannot  converse  for  any  ex- 
travagant length  of  time  about  Don  Carlos.  The  sub- 
ject is  too  agitating.   .   .   .   Don't  throw  me  over." 

"  I  will  join  you  to-morrow." 

Lord  Wight  looked  incredulous. 

"  No,  you  won't,"  said  he.  "I  have  a  presentiment 
that  you  won't." 

Orange  colored  again. 

"I  can't  explain  all  the  circumstances,"  he  answered, 
"but — the  chances  are  that — things  will  go  on  just  as 
usual.  I  mean  my  plans  for  the  future  and  so  on.  You 
might  perhaps  guess — " 

"  I  hate  guessing.  I  won't  do  it.  It  always  offends 
people — particularly  if  you  make  a  lucky  hit  !  " 

"I  have  no  reason — no  particular  reason  that  is  to  say 
— to  hope  for  any  especial  change  in  my  life,"  said  Robert, 
now  pale.  "But  I  shall  have  to  speak  .  .  .  because  I 
simply  can't  go  on  .  .  .  wondering.  That's  too  awful. 
I  have  always  tried  to  feel  that  I  was — interested — as  a 
friend  only.  I  didn't  altogether  succeed.  Still,  the  effort 
was  made,  and  I  pulled  myself  together,  and  I  did  man- 
age to  get  the  upper  hand.  I  don't  know  how  I  did  it, 
either.     Then  I  heard  that  she  was  free.     And  you  would 


362  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

have  thought  that  I  had  never  struggled  at  all.  I  once 
had  a  friend  who  built  a  fine  wall  on  his  estate  in  order  to 
keep  back  the  sea.  It  answered  for  a  while.  But  the 
sea  was  not  to  be  conquered.  It  rushed  in — when  its 
time  came — and  the  great  stones  went  for  nothing.  It 
was  soon  as  though  they  had  never  been.  And  that  was 
my  feeling  when  I  heard  of  Parflete's  death." 

"Very  natural,  too,  I  am  sure,"  said  his  lordship,  "and 
most  extraordinarily  comtne  il  faiit.  If  the  story  were 
known — it  would  do  you  great  credit.  But  it  was  to  be 
— I  am  quite  certain  of  that.  I  wish  you  both  every  hap- 
piness. There  could  not  be  a  marriage  more  harmo- 
niously assorted.  I  suppose,  however,  you  won't  be  an- 
nouncing the  engagement  for  some  time." 

"I  have  not  yet  spoken  to  her.  There  is  no  engage- 
ment." 

"That,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling,  "is  but  a  matter  of 
the  post — or  do  you  intend  to  go  down  to  Catesby  again  ?  " 

Robert  dropped  his  glance  for  a  moment,  and  then 
looked  up  with  his  customary  frankness. 

"  You  shall  know  all  about  it,"  said  he,  "  to-morrow." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  feel  that  I  expect  yow  to  tell  me 
anything  about  your  private  affairs,"  said  Lord  Wight. 
"  What  has  already  happened  in  our  past  experience 
surely  is  enough  to  assure  you  of  this." 

But  his  expression  was  dissatisfied.  He  arched  his 
eyebrows,  and  drew  up  his  mouth  in  the  peculiar  smile 
which  he  always  assumed  as  an  outward  manifestation 
of  Christian  forbearance. 

"  I  relied  on  your  help,  you  know,"  he  went  on,  "  and 
that  is  one  reason  why  I  have  asked  this  big  party  of 
foreigners  to  Slatrach.  You  may  say  that  you  will  follow 
me  to-morrow.  But  /say  that,  in  the  circumstances,  you 
won't  be  able  to  do  so.  I  was  once  engaged  myself,  and 
my  plans  have  been  unsettled  ever  since.     That  was  forty 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  363 

years  ago.  An  engagement — whether  it  comes  to  mar- 
riage or  not — will  change  your  whole  life.  //  ne  faut 
arnais  penser  an  honhenr,  cela  atlit-e  le  diahle.  So  don't 
make  any  appointments  or  promises,  till  you  have  seen 
the  lady." 

Orange  sighed  without  replying.  He  was  not  thinking 
of  happiness,  nor  was  he  happy.  The  tumult  in  his  soul 
seemed  a  physical  pain,  and  confused  him.  He  felt  like 
a  wolf  with  a  sudden  gift  of  wings,  and  the  struggle 
between  the  old  paws  on  the  ground,  and  the  new  pinions 
in  the  air,  was  like  the  slow  rending  asunder  of  flesh  and 
spirit. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  pres- 
ently. 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  his  lordship.  "No  one 
ever  does  know  what  to  say  at  such  a  crisis.  One  merely 
thinks.  And  one's  friends  feel  for  one.  And  every  one 
is  very  much  relieved  when  it  is  all  over." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  shuffled  clumsily  out  of  the 
room.  Orange  dared  not  offer  to  assist  him.  Lord 
Wight  was  too  profound  a  sentimentalist  not  to  resent 
any  spectator  of  his  tears.  He  retired  alone  to  his  study, 
where,  with  trembling  fingers,  he  opened  many  books 
and  waited  to  hear  Robert  pass  through  the  Hall — on  his 
way  to  the  front-door.  He  did  not  listen  long.  The 
strong,  swift  foot  steps  seemed  to  follow  but  too  closely 
on  his  own  painful  tread.  He  heard  the  door  opened  ; 
and  a  sound  of  the  streets,  of  wheels,  traffic,  the  relentless 
energy  of  a  great-city,  came  loudly  for  a  moment.  Then 
the  door  w-as  closed  with  a  noise  that  went  through  the 
whole  mansion,  shaking  the  windows,  and  echoing 
through  the  desolate  apartments.  Youth,  and  blood,  the 
pride  of  life  and  the  desire  of  the  eyes  were  once  more 
outside  the  house,  and  within  there  was  only  wisdom  and 
a  great  deal  of  disturbed  dust. 


364  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Lord  Wight  rang-  the  bell  for  his  valet.  Glencorbie  had 
already  departed  the  day  before  in  order  to  prepare  the 
Castle  for  its  visitors. 

"  Eshelby,"  said  his  lordship,  "have  you  packed  my 
Spanish  Grammar,  Rabelais,  and  Candide  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"Then  take  them  out  again.  Putin  Horace,  the  Vita 
Nuova,  and  the  latest  volume  of  Mr.  Froude's  disgraceful 
History  !  I  will  take  the  Spanish  Grammar  in  my  pocket, 
and  see  what  I  can  make  of  it  in  the  train.  Mr.  Orange 
does  not  accompany  us.  He  hopes  to  join  us  to-mor- 
row." 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"But  I  don't  think  that  it  looks  much  like  it  at  pres- 
ent." 

The  man,  who  was  an  old  and  confidential  servant, 
glanced  up  with  a  respectful  reproduction  of  his  master's 
expression  of  countenance. 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,  my  lord,"  said  he:  "but  no 
doubt  Mr  Orange  will  feel  more  settled  before  long  !  He 
hasn't  been  in  his  bed  all  night.  It's  my  belief  he  keeps 
Vigils,  my  lord." 

"Poor  young  man  !  Such  a  dear  fellow  !  Of  course, 
he  finds  it  very  lonely,"  observed  Lord  Wight.  "A 
man  soon  learns  that  independence  is  not  the  highest 
good  in  life.  Young  people  like  each  other's  society — 
especially  of  an  opposite  sex  I  It  is  very  natural — very 
natural,  indeed.  And  old  people  ought  to  like  old  people, 
but  they  never  do.  That  is  why  every  man — not  a 
priest — should  marry  and  have  a  family.  Sons  and 
daughters  are  so  interesting.  Ojeunesse  /  Jeunesse  !  que 
Je  te  regrelle  !  Mais  fai-je  jamais  connue  P  That  is  French 
and  it  means,  don't  be  morbid.   .  .  .  And.   .  .  .   Eshelby." 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

"How  all  this  reminds  me  of  '29  and  Lady  Sybil.     I 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  J65 

suppose  I  was  quite  as  agitated  and — extraordinary  on 
the  night  of  that  dinner  at  Madame  de  Lieven's  ?  " 

"Every  bit,  my  lord.  Gentlemen  are  all  the  same,  my 
lord.  So  are  men.  Will  your  lordship  take  both  hot- 
water  bottles?  " 

"Both." 


366  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XXVni. 

Brigit,  who  had  received  a  message  from  Robert  early 
that  morning,  was  waiting  in  the  Convent  parlor  when  he 
arrived. 

The  little  room  tjie  wrote  to  Reckage)  was  very  quiet,  but,  for 
all  its  grayness,  it  seemed  one  of  the  stars — our  own.  There 
was  an  image  of  the  Mother  of  God  on  the  mantel-piece,  and  a 
large  map  of  the  Ancient  World  hanging  on  the  wall.  The 
window  was  cut  rather  high — as  if  for  a  studio.  One  could  see 
the  sky  only,  and  the  clouds  were  like  white  spirits  set  free, 
moving  upwards  through  the  ^ther.  But  I  noticed  these  things 
later,  when,  on  leaving,  I  looked  back,  not  once,  but  many  times. 
You  have  seen  Brigit  ?  Her  loveliness  now  fairly  catches  your 
breath.  I  gaze  at  her  and  am  terrified  at  mv  privilege.  1  fear 
she  will  vanish.  She  seems  to  vanish.  Yet  she  comes  again 
— the  lovelier.  She  is  still  there — but  only  as  an  emblem 
surely  : — 

Werd'ich  zum  Augenblicke  sagen  : 
Verweile  doch  !  dii  bist  so  schbn  ! 
Dann  magst  du  rnich  in  Fessehi  schlagen : 
Dann  will  ich  gern  zu  Grunde  gehn. 

Now  let  me  talk  with  you,  if  I  can,  quietly.  If  there  were  not 
another  world,  I  would  tear  myself  into  shreds  for  the  very  first 
disappointment  I  met  with,  in  this.  I  could  not  bear  it — the 
humiliation,  I  mean.  Nor  the  thought  of  death  either.  I  would 
leap,  of  my  own  free  will,  into  the  depths  of  misery.  I  would 
say,  "  Not  at  your  time,  O  Nemesis,  but  at  my  time.  You  shall 
not  call  me  at  your  pleasure  :  you  shall  not  hunt  about  for  me, 
entice  me  into  traps  baited  with  happiness,  find  me,  put  me  to 
slow  torture,  pour  me  out  at  your  will.  No  :  I  come  myself 
Tear  !  curse  !  burn  !  wound  !  but  I  first  shall  have  bruised  my 
own  flesh,  cursed  my  own  life,  seared  my  own  heart,  spread  out 
my  own  soul,  like  a  torn  rag,  on  your  pitch-fork."  This  is 
the  proud  side  of  the  philosophy  of  self-mortification — the  human, 
Pagan  side.  Pride  says,  "  I  will  not  eat  the  wafers  made  with 
honey,  and  be  sick  afterwards,  and  perhaps  be  beaten   into  the 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS,  367 

bargain."     Pride  says,  "  I  will  teach  my  mouth  to  loath  honey, 
and  1   will  myself  be   a  beater,  beating   myself.     What  better 
brute  ?  "     The  mere  strength  of  a  man  will  declare  that  much — 
if  he  can  love  anything  well  enough  to  feel  the  loss  of  it.     Some, 
of  course,   care  nothing  for  things  and  persons,  but  are   con- 
cerned only  with  conditions.     They  will  crawl  from  roof  to  roof, 
and  from  root  to  root — forgetting  the  peach  if  they  can  find  a 
turnip,  or  foregoing   the  turnip  if  they  may  lap  up  the  rinsings 
of  a  sour-beer  cask.     But  these  are  worms,  and  not  men.     For 
us — who  love  once  as  we  live  but  once — there  is,  under  our  feet, 
the  soliditas   Cathedra'  Petri.       From    this  we    see  the  other 
world — indeed,  the  greater  part  of  the  time  we  may  be  said  to 
move  in  it.     We  may  spend  whole  hours   in  the   Very  Presence 
of  the  Living  God.     He  is  there  in  perpetuity  :  He  is  to  be  found. 
He  will  come  Himself,  in  the  Blessed  Sacrament  of  the  Altar,  to 
the  heart  of  the  least  of  His  worshippers.     It  is  there  and  then 
that  pride,  a  weak  force  at  best,  becomes  devotion — the  mightiest 
of  all  forces.     The  Lord  Incarnate,  Who  laid  the  foundations  of 
the  earth  and  shut  up  the  sea  with  doors.  Who  commands  the 
morning  and  has  caused  the  day-spring  to  know  his  place.  Who 
alone  spreadeth  out  the  Heavens,  and  bringeth  out  to  light  the 
shadow  of  death— He,  the  Creator  of  the    World  and  its  Re- 
deemer, is  Himself  a  Sacrifice.     To  know  this  is  to  know  all  that 
we  need  to  know.     But  if  the  rest  is  not  easy,  we  always  feel 
that  we  are  not  shadows  with  the  gift  of  suffering,  nor  chained 
Titans,  nor  petty  deities,  but  nothing  less  than  the  sons   of  God 
and  joint-heirs  with  Christ.     Oh,  the  splendor,  the  liberty  of  that 
magnificent  certitude  !     Why  do  we  ever  forget  it  ?     Why  do 
we  sit  in  the  ashes,  counting  the  temporal  things  we  have  lost 
or  may  lose,  when  we  have  inherited  as  our  birthright  all  the 
eternal  fastnesses  of  Heaven  !     You  will  not  quarrel  with  these 
thoughts,  but  you    may  ask,  why  do   I  have  them  now,  at  this 
moment  ?     You  are  waiting  to  hear  a  tale  in  another  strain.     I 
could  perhaps  send  what  you  expect — yet  it  would  not  be  a  letter 
from  Me.     It  would  be  a  manufactured  thing  from  that  sham 
entity — the  three  Unities.     I  know  the  rules  of  effective  compo- 
sition— they   are  easily  learnt.     I  could   send  you  "a  work  of 
art  " — the   real  thing.     First,  the  lady — described  in   a  sharp, 
cold-blooded,  memorable  way.     Take  one  feature.     Make  much 
of  it.     Homer  did  the  same — after  his  old,  lucid  fashion.     Then 
the  scene,  lightly  done.     Nature  then — rather  heavy.     Suggest 
orchestration — if  possible.     Let  the  lady  speak — but,   above   all 
things,  a  short  sentence.     It  cannot  be  too  banal.     A  banalite 
is  always  le  juste  mot.     Then   (with  a  fresh  ink-bottle)  set  the 
whole  globe  whirling  for  a  couple  of  pages,  and  use  long  words 


368  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

— for  the  balance.  Return  to  the  human  interest.  Let  your- 
self speak — or,  preferably,  merely  sigh.  At  this  tremendous 
point,  use  your  sunset  for  all  it  is  worth,  and,  plucking  it  from 
the  consuming  Heavens,  drag  it  down  to  the  hem  of  the  lady's 
petticoat  !  Who  does  not  know  the  obscene  plan  ?  So  the  dog 
bays  the  moon,  and  returns  to  his  own  vomit.  Shall  I  repeat 
carefully  what  we  each  said,  how  we  said  it,  how  we  looked, 
how  we  each  thought  we  looked  ?  Is  there  nothing  to  be  kept 
sacred  on  this  earth  ?  Even  Memory  has  its  reserves.  To  be 
honest,  I  do  not  even  remember  w^hat  we  said.  Did  I  go  forth 
this  morning  to  find  an  e.xperience,  to  tickle  my  soul  into  some 
utterance — some  squeal,  bray,  or  crow  which  I  could  mimic 
later,  in  words,  for  my  bosom  friend,  or  the  public  ?  I  have  to 
earn  my  bread  by  writing.  I  am  a  poor  man — and  as  things 
look  now — I  shall  be  poorer  yet.  Parflete,  I  feel  sure,  has 
squandered  every  franc  of  Brigit's  fortune.  This  I  don't  mind. 
That  dof  must  have  had  a  curse  upon  it.  But  if  I  were  starving 
— I  think  \(  s/ie  were  starving — I  would  never  put  to  paper,  or 
repeat  to  any  creature,  for  all  the  prizes  of  the  earth,  any  ac- 
count— fuller  than  this  you  know — of  my  own  love,  or  of  some 
imaginary  love.  I  go  into  these  things  now,  because  they  have 
a  relevance  greater  than  you  would,  at  first,  suppose.  They  are 
brought  to  my  mind  by  the  thought  that  I  must  set  my  wits  to 
work  at  once,  and  produce  something  more  profitable  than  a 
little  volume  of  French  Hislory.  I  must  provide  a  home  for  my 
future  wife.  Grey  wood  will  give  me  ;^20o  for  the  Due  de  Guise, 
and  ;^iooo  for  a  "  pretty  love  tale."  Well,  "many  bear  the 
thyrsus,  but  few  are  inspired  by  the  god."  I  can  at  least  do  my 
best — keeping  these  two  rules  before  me  : — i.  No  "  portraits  " 
of  my  friends.  2.  No  love  scenes  in  the  "  impersonal  manner." 
We  shall  marry  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  She  tells  me 
that  Baron  Zeuill,  her  other  trustee,  should  arrive  in  London  to- 
day. P'or  some  reason,  he  is  well  disposed  toward  me.  He 
would  approve,  she  says,  of  our  marriage.  This  being  the  case, 
he  will,  I  hope,  give  his  countenance  to  the  matter,  and  so  re- 
move every  difficulty  in  the  way  of  a  Special  Licence.  1  have 
been  to  both  Embassies.  We  must  have  all  things  in  perfect 
order.  I  have  every  reason  to  trust  the  Baron.  She  took  shelter 
in  his  Palace  after  the  escape  from  Loadilla.  To  his  influence 
with  Prim,  I  owe  my  present  liberty — perhaps,  my  life.  I  have 
not  a  doubt  of  his  kindness.  I^t  is  a  relief  unutterable  to  find 
that  I  can  act  quite  openly  in  the  matter.  I  detest  long  engage- 
ments. I  could  write  whole  volumes  in  folio  against  them. 
They  are  immoral  and  destroying.  I  hate — and  I  have  always 
hated — the   notion  of  a  clandestine  marriage.     What  does  'i{ 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  369 

mean  ?  A  constant  ground  for  scandal,  misunderstandings, 
curiosity  and  lies.  I  shall  not  see  Brigit  again  till  our  wedding 
day.  I  have  already  written  to  Zeuill.  He  is  exjiected  at  Clar- 
idge's  this  evening.  I  seem  to  feel  that  everything  will  go 
smoothly  now,  and  I  am  not  at  all  anxious.  Have  I  not  her 
promise  .'' 


This  was  a  letter  from  his  heart,  and,  in  all  his  cor- 
respondence and  writing,  there  is  not  a  passage  which 
brings  out  more  clearly  the  two  ruling  motives  of  his  life. 
Which  came  first.''  Had  he  been  asked,  he  would  not 
have  known  how  to  answer.  It  was  the  hidden,  and 
therefore  the  more  powerful ;  it  was  the  one  of  which  he 
was  the  least  conscious — the  one  he  spoke  of  with  the 
greatest  difficulty.  It  was  not  his  atfection  for  Brigit. 
His  volume  of  sonnets — To  Kallisle  in  Exile — tells  all  the 
devotion  of  a  young  man  deeply,  most  humanly,  in  love. 
But  can  we  forget,  that,  before  he  sent  these  sweet  ad- 
dresses to  the  adored  "  Kalliste,"  he  had  composed  songs 
as  impassioned,  if  a  little  less  tender,   "To  Henriette," 

«'To  A ,"    "To  Tryphena,"  "To  Cynthia,"  and  a  few^ 

more  }  In  each  instance,  the  poet's  state  appears  to  be 
carried  to  the  extremest  limit  of  possible  versification. 
He  is  utterly  in  earnest.  His  whole  being — and  nothing 
short  of  it — heaven-high  and  hell-deep,  is  always  irresist- 
ibly attracted  toward  the  subject  of  his  entreating,  re- 
proachful, bitter,  or  rapturous  lines.  Orange  could  never 
bring  himself  to  laugh,  at  any  time,  at  these  early  out- 
pourings of  an  ardent  mind  quickly  susceptible  to  the 
spells  of  beauty,  grace,  or  purity.  "  Kalliste,"  no  doubt, 
was  the  last  of  the  goddesses — the  perfect  sun  before 
which  all  other  lights  were  but  day-shadows  of  the  moon. 
No  other  woman  after  her,  could  ever  drive  him  even  so 
far  as  the  rhyming  dictionary.  Nor,  it  should  be  said, 
was  the  lady  one  who  would  have  played,  without  a 
word  or  two,  the  silent  tragedy  of  Griselda  dethroned. 
24 


370  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Yet  the  strongest  attachment  of  his  soul  was,  unques- 
tionably, to  God — to  the  Everlasting,  to  the  All-Powerful. 
His  own  strength  sought  the  Source  of  all  Strength  ;  his 
desire  of  truth  went  forth  to  the  One  Unalterable  Truth. 
No  one,  and  nothing,  could  separate  him — he  could  not 
separate  himself — from  his  innate  love  of  God.  And  next 
to  God,  he  loved  literature,  he  loved  books.  He  loved  to 
read  them,  he  loved  to  see  them,  to  handle  them.  He 
was  the  born  man  of  letters  and  libraries.  Brigit  stood 
apart  from  both  of  these  over-mastering,  yet  distinct 
devotions.  She  permeated,  she  did  not  control,  his  exist- 
ence. Her  soul  did  not  stand  in  his  own  soul's  stead. 
They  were  together,  but  identified.  When  a  woman  is 
the  first  and  chief  consideration  in  a  man's  life,  or  when 
a  man  becomes  the  first  and  chief  consideration  in  a 
woman's  life — the  end,  in  each  case,  will  be  always  cruel 
and  foolish — always  an  insupportable  disappointment  to 
one,  or  to  the  other,  or  to  both. 

It  is  true  that  Vv^hen  Robert  had  finished  his  letter,  and 
while  he  w^as  writing  it,  he  moved  in  that  trance  of  en- 
chantment when  the  soul  seems  to  be  floating,  like  a 
melody,  into  the  air.  To  close  his  eyes  was  to  see  illim- 
itable rosy  aether  :  to  open  them  was  to  behold,  in  seas 
of  bliss,  worlds  melting  into  worlds,  and  heavens  dissolv- 
ing into  heavens.  Mystery  and  vastness  were  around 
him  :  it  was  as  though  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  uni- 
verse, and  could  leap — not  down — but  upwards  into  the 
empyrean.  He  recognized  the  ecstatic  mood,  and  won- 
dered, for  a  moment,  whether  it  was  a  blessing,  or  a 
thorn,  to  possess  a  clear  knowledge  of  one's  spiritual 
organization.  Early  in  life,  he  had  shaken  his  mind 
through  the  Hegelian  sieve,  and,  as  a  result,  it  was  no 
longer  a  whole  mass,  but  a  collection  of  particles — each 
with  a  name.  No  one  can  study  Hegel  and  remain  un- 
altered   by  that   discipline,    or   see    his   fellow-creatures 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  371 

quite  as  he  saw  them  before.  Orange  loved  madly,  pas- 
sionately, but  he  knew  it.  He  was  happy,  but  he  knew 
it.  He  was  living-  in  a  day-dream,  but  he  knew  it.  And, 
the  intoxication,  the  folly  of  all  such  love,  such  happi- 
ness, and  such  dreaming  lies  in  the  ?zo/-knowing,  in  the 
mistaking  them,  in  the  spontaneous  rushing-forth  to  them 
as  to  the  ultimate  goal,  and  the  extreme  climax  of  all 
things.  "This,"  you  must  say  with  the  moth,  "is  the 
final,  the  undying,  the  star  of  stars."  "This,"  you  must 
say  with  Orpheus,  "is  the  last  note,  this  is  the  supreme 
gift."  Robert  could  not  say  these  things.  The  mellow 
radiance  of  the  Autumnal  sun  came  through  his  window, 
and  fell  upon  the  small  bronze  crucifix  which  was  nailed 
on  the  wall  that  faced  him.  He  knelt  before  it.  He  laid 
his  flushed  brow  against  the  Pierced  Feet.  There,  at  all 
times,  he  could  find  a  reprieve  from  all  torturing  self- 
doubts,  all  restless  questionings.  That  was  the  Way  and 
the  Life  :  that  was  the  Abiding  and  Unchangeable. 
There  was  not  a  splinter  of  the  Holy  Cross  but  had  proved 
adamant — yes — even  through  the  ordeal  of  the  Hegelian 
sieve  !  The  young  man's  heart  was  overwhelmed.  He 
felt  a  longing — a  need  to  remain  there,  as  he  was,  on  his 
knees — not  because,  out  of  Pagan  superstition,  he  feared 
to  be  too  happy,  but  because  his  happiness  would  not 
have  been  happiness  at  all,  without  that  Adored  and  Hal- 
lowing Influence. 

He  heard,  however,  quick  steps  outside  his  door,  and  he 
rose  up  with  a  sigh,  as  the  door  was  thrown  cautiously 
open,  and  Lord  Reckage,  with  an  air  of  vindictive  fatigue, 
walked,  unannounced,  into  the  room.  His  hair  and  au- 
burn beard  had  turned  grayer.  He  was  thinner,  darker 
round  the  eyes,  and  paler  than  Orange  had  ever  known 
him. 

"I  am  thankful  to  find  you,"  said  he,  waving  his  hand 
to  Robert  and  throwing  himself  on  to  the  first  seat — a  sofa 


373  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

— in  his  way.  "  I  wanted  to  see  you.  There  are  a  thou- 
sand things  on  my  mind.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  en- 
gaged and  it  is  all  settled,  I  suppose  you-  saw  the  an- 
nouncement in  The  Post.      But  that  was  premature." 

"I  thought  so.     That  is  why  I  didn't  write." 

"Well,  it  is  Agnes  at  last  !  She  is  charming  and  clever. 
I  worship  her.  I  could  say  this  to  no  one  except  yourself. 
Most  men  would  think  it  a  pose,  but  you  understand 
me." 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Robert,  stifling  a  doubt 
of  his  friend's  future  contentment  ;  "  I  am  sure  you  mu.st 
be  very  happy." 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Reckage,  "  that  is  precisely  what  I 
am  not  !  I  am  far  from  happy.  But  I  am  interested. 
Life  for  the  moment  interests  me  enormously.  You  know 
what  the  French  poet  has  said:  '  Rassure  toi,  l' amour 
viendra ;  desole-toi,  il  nest  pas  T ideal  de  bonhetir  que  tu 
penses.'  When  we  ask  for  our  daily  bread,  we  mean  our 
daily  deceptions.  The  terrible  irony  of  life  is  the  incon- 
testable fact  that  we  cannot  exist  without  a  number  of  in- 
toxicating illusions.  They  are  the  wine  by  which  we 
defy  the  horrors  of  the  slaughter-house  !  " 

"But  surely  there  is  a  certainty — or  two  !  " said  Robert, 
unable  to  resist  a  quiet  thrust  at  this  newest  pillar  of  the 
Establishment. 

"I    want    a   pactical  talk — not    thai,"    said   Reckage. 

"  What's  the  good  of  going  into  all  that  now  }  Some- 
times one  must  look  at  things  from  the  outside.  Nature 
is  stronger  than  systems.  And  I  am  worried  in  every 
sort  of  way.  Of  course,  Agnes  and  I  are  close  friends — 
such  friends  that  it  would  kill  me  if  she  were  to  marry 
anyone  else.  My  people  are  very  pleased  ;  her  people, 
I  fancy,  are  not  so  delighted.  They  are  all  serious-minded 
and  jaw — ^jaw,  jaw — from  morning  till  night  about  one's 
duty.     Agnes  has  inherited  just   a  shade  of  the    pulpit 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  37^ 

manner.  She  approaches  politics  from  the  relig^ious  point 
of  view.  Of  course  that's  my  line,  and  I  like  her  to  feel 
an  intelligent  interest  in  my  work.  But  you  don't  want 
your  line  following  you  everywhere — from  your  wife's  bou- 
doir to  your  heir's  nursery  !  We  shall  be  as  happy,  no 
doubt,  as  most  married  couples — perhaps  happier  than 
most,  because  I  enter  matrimony  with  clear  eyes.  It  is  a 
state  of  bondage — a  deliberate  chaining  up  of  one's  inde- 
pendence." 

Orange  knew  that  there  was  an  essential  brutality  in 
Reckage's  composition  which  neither  refined  habits  nor  a 
polished  manner  could  totally  disguise.  Perhaps  he  read 
Robert's  thoughts.  His  sensitiveness  to  opinion  was  ex- 
treme, and  he  was  quick  to  perceive  meanings,  or  glances, 
when  they  seemed  to  have  reference  to  himself. 

"  You  think  I  am  cold-blooded,"  he  said,  flushing.  "I 
can  but  say  this — that  whenever  I  look  at  the  sky,  or 
whenever,  I  see  flowers,  whenever  I  enter  a  Church,  or 
whenever  I  hear  music,  I  remember  Agnes  !  It  would  be 
idle  to  pretend  that  I  suffer  from  thrills  and  sleeplessness. 
I  have  done  with  all  that  sort  of  thing — for  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  settle  down.  I  was  very  fond  of  " — his 
voice  grew  husky — "  I  was  very  fond  of  my  cousin  Amy. 
She  wasn't  half  so  pretty  as  this  one,  but  she  had  such 
tact.  If  Amy  had  lived — oh,  well,  you  know  what  Heine 
said:  ^  From  my  great  sorrows,!  made  little  songs.'  This 
shall  be  the  motto  for  my  married  life.  The  '  little 
songs'  may,  now  and  again,  have  a  jarring  note,  but 
nothing  worse  !  " 

"When  will  the  marriage  take  place  !  " 

"Early  next  year  most  probably." 

"How  lovely  she  is  !     You  are  a  lucky  fellow.  Beau." 

Reckage  drew  a  little  miniature  from  his  pocket  and 
surveyed   it   with  a  languid,     half-grudging    admiration 


374  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

which  had  something  in  it  of  vague  annoyance — even  an- 
imosity. 

"  She  zs  lovely,"  he  said,  "and  of  course  she  is  much 
prettier  than  Amy  was — even  at  her  best.  Poor  lit- 
tle Amy  !  It  is  strange  how  differently  trouble  affects 
different  people.  It  makes  some  fellows  melancholy.  It 
has  made  me  hard."  His  eyes  welled  over  with  tears. 
"  I'm  a  fool, "  he  went  on.  "  I  am  unstrung  and  tired 
out  and  everything  else.  But  I  was  simply  awfully  fond 
of  that  one." 

He  plunged  his  head  into  the  sofa-cushion,  and  the 
miniature  fell  to  the  ground. 

Orange  picked  it  up.  It  showed  the  face  of  a  young  girl 
about  one-and-twenty.  Her  hair  was  brown,  brushed 
straight  back  over  a  cushion  from  the  low  brow,  and 
worn  (it  was  the  fashion  of  that  day) in  a  chigno7i.  Her 
countenance,  with  its  flower-like  freshness  of  color  and 
deep  gray  eyes,  had  the  health  and  purity  which  belong  to 
an  intense  yet  unselfish  nature.  A  curious  charm,  a 
something  irresistible,  compelling  yet  wholly  innocent, 
seemed  to  emanate  even  from  her  presentment  on  cold 
ivory. 

"She  is  a  beautiful  creature,"  said  Robert. 

"She  is  perfect,"  groaned  the  bridegroom-elect.  "I 
am  devoted  to  her.  But  can't  you  understand  ?  I  don't 
wish  to  dhiigrer  my  affection  for  Agnes,  but  she  isn't 
Amy — is  she  1  And  nothing  will  ever  make  her  Amy.  I 
know  that  I'm  a  lucky  fellow.  Valentine  Vivian  says 
that  no  one,  since  the  Gunnings  and  the  Sheridans,  has 
created  such  a  sensation  as  Agnes.  She  has  had  any 
amount  of  brilliant  offers.  I  can't  think  why  she  accepted 
me.  I  dislike  being  a  woman's  ideal.  It  makes  you  feel 
such  an  unmitigated  impostor.  I  was  never  Amy's  ideal. 
She  would  just  come  in  and  put  her  arms  round  my 
neck,   and  say,       'I  hate    you  !  '      That  was  so  nice  of 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  375 

her.  It  was  the  most  fetching  thing  you  ever  heard. 
But  I  am  not  going  to  sit  here  reminding  myself  of  Amy. 
It  isn't  fair  to  Agnes.  Let  us  drop  the  whole  subject.  .  . 
Have  you  heard  from  Hercy  lately  ?" 

"  His  last  letter — which  I  received  many  weeks  ago — 
was  dated  from  Paris. " 

"Well,  he  is  now  in  London,  and  he  is  worrying  me  to 
death.  Half  oi  /his — is  Hercy's  fault.  My  nerves  are  all 
quivering.  He  has  suddenly,  without  a  word  of  warning, 
gone  in  for  Art.  He  paints  portraits.  You  never  saw 
such  things — blots,  and  smears,  and  a  regular  mess. 
They  would  make  you  sick.  He  calls  them  artistic.  An 
artist's  strength  is  to  be  ajier  bourgeois — a  Philistine  like 
Velasquez  or  Millais.  But  Hercy  does  nothing  but  blether 
about  tones,  and  values,  and  the  colors  of  sounds.  He 
says  that  Agnes  has  a  pink  voice,  and  he  has  painted  her 
voice.  He  has  called  it  '  The  Pink  Voice.'  Everything 
about  it  is  pink — except  her  face,  and  that  is  violet.  He 
says  that  he  sees  her  that  way.  But  if  people  see  such  re- 
pellent monsters — ought  they  to  paint  them  ?  That  is  not 
the  worst,  however.  He  has  taken  up  with  such  a  queer 
set  of  friends.  He  goes  everywhere  now  with  an  un- 
savory looking  dog  called  Mandeville.  Mandeville  is 
by  way  of  being  a  fiddler.  And  he  has  a  wife — Flamma 
Mandeville  —  a  dreadful  sort  of  woman,  a  foreigner. 
Hercy  has  painted  her  as  '  Jlie  Purple  Smile.'  It  looks 
like  a  Tartan  plaid — with  all  the  dyes  running  into  each 
other.  He  is  going  to  send  it  to  the  Academy.  Papa  is 
frantic  with  annoyance. " 

"I  never  heard  of  the  Mandevilles.  But  if  they  are 
really  objectionable,  Hercy  will  soon  get  tired  of  them. 
So  many  men  are  degraded  by  their  sympathies.  They 
have  any  amount  of  aspirations  and  would  like  to  fly,  but 
they  have  not  the  courage  to  fly  alone.  So  they  prefer  to 
crawl — in  company.     It  is  natural  enough." 


376  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SALNTS. 

"But  you  should  see  the  three  together — Swinburne 
and  sherry  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  no 
proper  breakfast.  Brahms  and  onions  and  beer  and  Bach 
at  night.  You  know  the  kind  of  thing.  I  don't  say  that 
there  is  the  least  harm  in  their  nonsense.  But  it  is  so 
bad  for  Hercy.  Won't  you  come  round  with  me  to  his 
Studio  ?  " 

"Has  he  got  a  Studio.?  " 

"  Rather.     And  he  has  broken  Papa's  heart." 

"But  he  may  have  genuine  talent." 

Reckage  shook  his  head. 

"Wait,"  said  he,  "till  you  have  seen  The  Pmk  Voice. 
I  believe  he  is  going  mad.  And  if  there  is  insanity — 
even  latent — in  our  family,  I  must  know  it.  Agnes's 
people  are  beginning  to  look  a  little  glum  already.  The 
Bishop  is  not  a  man  to  take  any  risk,  I  can  tell  you.  Of 
course,  I  don't  really  believe  that  Flercy  is  mad." 

"I  should  think  not.  He  is  brilliant.  These  rapid 
changes  of  mood,  the  disordered  vievvs,  and  the  irregular 
life  are  characteristic  of  every  artist  whose  work  is  a  self- 
conscious  form  of  autobiography.  A  vision  so  consti- 
tuted that  it  is  perpetually  directed  inward,  egoistically, 
and  never  outward,  sympathetically,  tempts  its  possessor 
to  produce — at  every  sacrifice — a  certain  amount  of  va- 
riety in  his  own  soul.  Everything  depends  then  on  the 
quality  of  the  soul.  But  have  you  no  mercy  on  youth  } 
Hercy's  heart  is  all  right." 

"Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  I  think  he  should  defer  his 
antics  till  I  am  married,  and  so  on.  Every  one  hates 
artists  in  his  family.  Do  come  and  see  him,  and  talk  to 
him.     He  may  listen  to  you." 

He  paused  a  moment  to  look  at  his  watch. 

"  I  have  to  attend  a  Committee  Meeting  at  six,"  said 
he.  "  We  are  going  to  jump  on  the  Vatican  Council.  .  .  . 
You  know  it's  a  real  trouble  to  me  that  you  cannot  see 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  377 

the  Papacy  as  I  do.  I  hear  on  all  sides  what  a  crisis  this 
is.  All  the  same  I  always  dread  an  Appeal  to  our 
Church.  It  is  like  a  sickly  person  recovering.  One  can- 
not be  morally  sure  that  it  can  stand — yet.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  don't  think  that  relisjion  ever  has  reached,  or 
ever  will  get  hold  of,  the  English  mind  and  imagination. 
No  Englishman  at  any  period  has  been  able  to  paint  either 
a  Christ,  or  a  Holy  Family.  He  can  work  up  a  sacred 
picture  for  the  Galleries,  and  he  can  copy  the  early  Ital- 
ians, but  there  is  nothing  spontaneous  about  his  concep- 
tions of  Divinity.  We  are  not  a  religious  nation.  It  isn't 
in  us.  It  never  was  in  us — we  were  never  good  Catholics 
at  our  best.  But," — he  glanced  at  Robert  with  an  air  of 
apology — "I  haven't  asked  you  about  your  own  affairs?  " 

"I  was  just  writing  to  you,"  said  Robert,  "when  you 
came  in.     I  thought  you  were  still  with  the  Carillons." 

"  No,  I  couldn't  stand  the  Palace  any  longer.  It  was 
too  much  of  a  strain.  Agnes  alone  is  charming,  and  her 
people  alone  are  charming.  I  love  the  old  Bishop.  But 
the  whole  of  them  in  a  bunch  makes  one  feel  rather  lonely. 
Give  me  that  letter.  I  always  like  your  letters.  That's 
all  right.     You  are  looking  much  better.     Come  along  !  " 

They  descended  the  stair-case  together,  arm  in  arm, 
Reckage  leaning  with  genuine,  unconscious  affection  on 
the  young  man  whom  he  liked  to  regard  as  his  protege. 

"  By-the-bye,"  said  he,  "I  never  told  you  how  pleased 
I  was  about  that  Norbet  Royal  election.  Wasn't  it  a 
lucky  fluke  ?  No  one  could  understand  it.  But  Disraeli 
has  any  amount  of  influence,  one  way  and  another." 

They  took  a  cab,  and  drove  toward  an  address  in  Chel- 
sea. Reckage  had  regained  his  spirits,  and  he  was  now 
wondering  where  he  would  go  for  his  honeymoon,  and 
whether  Framlingham  would  have  a  place  in  the  next 
Cabinet. 

It  was  one  of  those  clear  days  in  the  early  Autumn 


37H  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

when  the  leaf,  not  yet  fallen,  still  trembles,  glorious  in 
dying,  on  the  bough  :  when  there  are  rosy  clouds  on  the 
russet  sky,  and  when  the  songs  and  softness  of  the 
Summer  still  linger  in  the  air, 

"  It  is  so  much  better  out  here,"  exclaimed  Reckage, 
"everything  looks  different  now.  The  Church  is  cer- 
tainly in  a  wretched  state,  and  people  who  think  that  it 
must  rest  on  the  multitude — not  the  brains — of  England, 
are,  of  course,  desponding.  But  I  am  going  to  make  a 
straight  bid  for  the  brains  !  Pusey  and  these  other  fel- 
lows talked  too  much  about  sin  and  the  soul.  That  bores 
people.  Brains  are  the  thing.  A  man  is  proud  of  his 
brains.  Very  few  are  proud  of  their  souls.  Fellows  who 
talk  about  their  souls  are  a  flabby  lot — as  a  rule.  And 
they  behave  like  brutes  in  reality.  I  know  there  are  ex- 
ceptions. But  what's  the  good  of  making  for  the  Minor- 
ity.'  That  is  your  ambition — not  mine.  I  met  Dizzy  the 
other  morning,  at  Framlingham's,  and  managed  to  appear 
at  my  worst.  I  am  sure  he  must  have  thought  me  a  fool. 
I  sometimes  have  stupid  fits.  But  he  knew  who  I  was, 
and  seemed  curious  about  me." 

*'I  am  thinking  about  Hercy,"  said  Robert,  rousing 
himself  with  a  start.  "  I  remember  now  that  he  always 
had  a  wish  to  paint.  It  is  absurd  to  say  that  we  ought  to 
attempt  nothing,  but  what  we  can  do.  We  know  not 
what  we  can  do,  and  what  we  cannot,  till  we  have  tried. 
He  may  hope  to  find  work  easy.  If  it  should  prove  a 
great  deal  too  much  for  him,  he  will  have  learned,  at  least, 
how  to  respect  failure." 

"  What  an  extraordinary  way  of  looking  at  it !  I  hate 
failures  myself.  All  the  same  I  wrote  Hercy  as  nice  a 
letter  as  ever  I  could.  But  I  cannot  describe  the  kind  of 
sickness  I  felt  when  he  showed  me  his  pictures.  He  is 
my  twin-brother,  and  yet  he  could  produce  those  awful 
things  !     I  blushed  for  them.     Why  should  he  not  try  to 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  379 

revive  the  old  qOo^  in  Art?  One  could  stand  a  fad  of  that 
kind.  There  would  be  some  dignity  about  that.  I  am 
very  fond  of  him.  I  would  make  any  sacrifice  for  him, 
but  this  new  craze  will  embitter  every  occurrence  of  my 
life." 

"  Hercy  seldom  expects  one  to  make  a  sacrifice.  He 
wants  your  confidence." 

"Yes,  but  that's  the  hardest  thing  on  earth  a  fellow 
can  give  him.  I  will  try  to  keep  myself  cool  ;  but  sup- 
pose we  find  him  with  that  vulgar  woman  !  She  orders 
him  about  as  though  he  were  a  lady's  maid — 7/zy  brother  ! 
I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it.      Let  us  get  out  and  walk." 

They  dismissed  the  hansom  and  went  together  along 
the  Embankment. 

"The  thing  beats  me,"  said  the  young  man,  "it  fairly 
beats  me,"  and,  going  the  rest  of  the  way  in  silence,  they 
looked  at  the  river  where  a  dark  barge  was  slowly  mov- 
ing westward. 

The  house  was  soon  found.  There  was  a  strip  of  garden 
in  front,  newly  planted  with  those  full-grown  trees  which 
one  may  see  being  borne  along  in  carts,  root  exposed  and 
branches  tied  round  with  hay,  for  some  temporary  exhibi- 
tion. A  fountain  played  in  the  centre,  the  water  spurting 
forth  from  a  gourd  held  high  above  the  head  of  a  stone 
Msenad.  The  house  door — made  of  oak,  and  glass,  and 
ivory,  and  bearing  Hercy's  name — 

The  Ho?i.  Hercy  Berenville, 

in  tortured  characters — stood  half-open. 

"  His  servant  has  probably  gone  out  for  a  moment," 
said  Reckage,  entering  the  narrow  hall.  A  strong  odor 
of  pastilles  and  tobacco,  roses  and  coffee,  patchouli  and 
garlic  sent  both  men  staggering  backward. 

"My  God  !  "  murmured  his  lordship. 


380  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

Robert  heard  the  sound  of  a  melodious  unknown  voice, 
and  then  a  shrill  feminine  laugh. 

"The  Mandevilles  !  "  said  Reckage. 

A  dog-  barked. 

"Fiammetta  !  Fiammetta  !  "  cried  the  lady,  in  a  strong 
foreign  accent,   "  Fiammetta  I  do  be  quiet." 

The  other  voice  grew  louder,  and  said, — 

"  Wilt  Thou  yet  take  all,  Galilean  ?  but  these  Thou  shall  not  take. 
The  laurel,  the  palms  and  the  p(Ean,   the  breasts  of  the  nymphs  in  the 

brake  ;  .  .  • 
And  all  the  wings  of  the  Loves,  and  all  the  Joy  before  death  ;  .  .  ■ 
Thou  hast  conquered,  O  pale  Galilean  ;  the  world  has  grown  gray  from 
Thy  breath." 

"  Oh,  dat  is  ve-ree  fine  !  "  exclaimed  the  lady,  although 
the  yapping  of  Fiammetta  had  made  much  of  it  inaudible  ; 
"  and  ve-ree  true  !  " 

Reckage,  followed  by  Orange,  advanced  into  the  studio 
w^here  Hercy  was  standing,  on  his  crutch,  in  front  of  a 
large  canvas,  with  his  back  to  the  door.  A  young  man, 
who  was  evidently  posing  for  his  portrait,  was  reading 
aloud.  On  the  divan  sat  a  woman,  with  red  hair,  smok- 
ing a  cigarette.  She  held  a  small  Skye  terrier  in  her  lap, 
and  was  the  first  to  perceive  the  visitors. 

"O  la-la  !"  she  exclaimed,  without  stirring,  "  Her-cee, 
eet  ees  your  brother-r,  and  a  man." 

The  artist,  who  had  been  absorbed  in  his  occupation, 
turned  round.  Blushing  scarlet,  he  showed,  certainly, 
more  pleasure  than  annoyance  at  the  surprise.  But  the 
annoyance — or  was  it  shame.? — was  not  the  less  evident. 

"  Robert !  "  he  cried,  "  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  it  is 
old  Robert?  How  are  you  .'  And  Reckage  !  Sit  down, 
old  stick.  How's  Agnes.?  I  am  as  well  as  possible  and 
I  am  working — most  awfully  hard.  None  of  them  can 
paint  so  well  as  T  hope  to  paint!  You  may  look  at  it — 
but  it  is  all  wrong." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  381 

"It  is  rather  alarming,  I  own,"  said  Reckage,  m  a  tone 
of  cruel  contempt. 

"Beau,"  said  the  artist,  quivering,  "is  one  of  those 
critics  who  think  it  the  knowing  thing  to  point  out  all  the 
faults.  Any  ass  can  see  the  faults.  I  can  see  them  my- 
self!    But  it  isn't  so  bad  as  all  that.     I  swear  it  isn't. " 

"I  like  the  color  so  much,"  said  Robert. 

"Of  course.  But  you  are  a  worker — you  understand. 
The  color  is  all  right — it's  the  beastly  drawing  now.  But 
that  will  come.  The  light  here  is  very  bad,  especially  as 
this  picture  is  rather  deep  in  tone.  And  the  nuisance  is, 
that  whenever  I  have  a  good  mood  on,  that  infer- 
nal chimney  begins  to  smoke.  And  Flamma — er — er — 
Mrs.  Mandeville,  cannot  be  expected  to  sit  in  a  cold 
room." 

"The  chimnee  is  re-allee  awful,"  observed  the  lady. 

"Let  me  introduce  everybody,"  said  Hercy,  who  now 
seemed  on  the  verge  of  hysterical  tears;  "Philip,  this  is 
Orange.  You  know  my  brother.  Robert,  this  is  Mr. 
Mandeville — er — er —  What  a  fool  I  am  !  I  ought  to 
have  introduced  you  first  to  Mrs.  Mandeville.  Flamma, 
forgive  me — er — er — Flamma,  this  is  Mr.  Orange." 

Flamma  extended  her  small,  unpleasant  hand  to  both 
visitors.  The  sitter,  who  was  a  strikingly  handsome 
young  man,  with  a  delicate  sullen  face  and  an  elaborate 
resemblance  to  Alfred  de  Musset,  stood  up,  came  down 
from  the  dais,  and  immediately  seated  himself  by  his 
wife.  He  never  spoke  then,  nor  at  any  time  during  the 
visit. 

"  Flamma,"  said  Hercy  to  the  lady,  who  was   pouting, 
"Flamma,  you  have  often  heard  me  talk  about  Robert. 
We  read  his  book  together.     You  liked  it  so  much." 
"Oh,  yes." 

She  laughed,  and  in  so  doing  displayed  a  row  of  irreg- 
ular,  discolored  teeth.     Her  lips  were  thin,   purple  and 


382  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

curiously  withered.  A  dreadful  e?inui  brooded  in  her  roll- 
ing blue  eyes.  Her  nose  had  the  wide,  disproportioned 
nostrils  which  belong  to  a  coarse  nature.  She  was 
vicious,  discontented  and  untidy.  She  wore  a  soiled 
lavender  silk,  and  an  Italian  sash  of  many  brilliant  hues. 
Her  face  was  heavily  powdered.  Youth  she  still  pos- 
sessed, but  it  was  a  youth  without  charm  and  with  very 
little  innocence.  Hercy  looked  at  her  with  an  imploring 
glance — the  glance  of  a  canary  to  a  rat.  He  seemed  to 
be  praying,  "  Do  be  nice  to  them."  Then  he  picked  up 
his  brush,  and  made  fierce  strokes  on  the  sultry  back- 
ground of  his  canvas. 

"  We  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  work,  Hercy  !  " 
said  his  brother. 

Mandeville  glided  back  to  his  seat  on  the  raised  plat- 
form, and  resuming  his  pose,  a  fine  one,  began  to  read 
that  morning's  newspaper. 

"  Shall  I  show  them  your  pictures,  Hercy  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Mandeville. 

"  Thank  you,  Flam  ma.     That  would  be  very  kind." 

She  made  a  little  grimace  at  Robert  and  shrugged  her 
shoulders. 

"Lord  Reckage  always  upsets  him,"  she  whispered. 
"  He  gets  on  hees  nerves." 

His  lordship  had  strolled  away  to  the  far  end  of  the  apart- 
ment and  was  looking  at  the  volumes  in  the  book-case. 
He  had  no  desire  to  see  any  further  examples  of  his 
brother's  aberrating  vision.  Flamma  darted  a  look  of 
hatred  at  his  back.  She  stared  at  Orange  with  the  hunger 
of  some  starving  beast.  No  human  power  could  have 
made  her  a  pleasant  woman,  or  an  attractive  one  ;  she 
was  brutal  and  probably  treacherous.  Yet  she  presented 
a  picture  of  squalid  woe  past  all  description  pitiful.  As 
she  tottered  on  her  high  heels  round  the  room,  Robert 
found  himself  following  her  with  interest  and  even  a  cu- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  383 

nous  sense  of  commiseration.     She  had  the  irresistible 
magnetism  of  the  wretched. 

"  Her-cee,"  she  said,  "has  got  ree-al  talent — ree-al 
gen-i-us.  But  he  needs  friends  who  have  lajoie  de  vivre. 
English  people  are  so  Northern,  so  Olympian,  so  unin- 
spiring to  his  tem-per-a-ment.  I  know  dem,  and  I  under- 
stand gen-i-us.  Have  you  ever  heard  my  husband  play  .' 
Eet  ees  mar-vellous.  Wagner  says  that  eet  ees  wonder- 
ful. Eet  ees  not  a  man — eet  ees  a  spir-it.  You  are  car- 
ried away.  You  cry.  You  laugh.  You  sob.  You  go 
mad.  Eet  ees  not  music.  Eet  ees  death.  Eet  ees  an- 
gu-ish  !     He  P  " 

She  broke  into  a  dreadful  laugh,  and  diving  into  a  cup- 
board, produced  a  little  canvas. 

"Dis  is  de  best,"  said  she,  "quite — de  best.  Eet  ees 
veree  good.     Look  at  eet.     Eet  is  me." 

But  Hercy  sprang  forward  and  snatched  it  from  her 
hand, 

"You  know  that's  the  worst,"  he  said,  his  face  distorted 
with  passion.  "  I  won't  have  it  shown.  It's  a  beast  of 
a  thing." 

Flamma  laughed  again,  and  yawned,  and  laughed. 

Hercy  threw  down  his  palette  with  a  sudden  gesture  of 
despair. 

"Who  ever  heard,"  he  said,  "of  any  man  doing  good 
work  at  this  hour  of  the  day?  It  is  preposterous.  And 
the  whole  idea  of  '  sittings '  is  absurd,  You  should 
study  a  face,  and  then  paint  it — all  by  yourself — without 
a  soul — from  memory." 

"  And  how  lone-lee  you  would  be,  Her-cee  !  Eet 
would  be  awful.  Poor  Her-cee  !  You  would  die — quite 
heart  brok-en.  Come  !  let  us  have  a  leetle  game  of 
cards." 

"  Cards  J  "  said  Hercy.  "What  an  inspiration  !  "  He 
looked  like  a  man  under  sentence  of  death. 


384  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  But  first,"  said  Flamma,  "  won't  you  say  good-bye  to 
your  brother?     He  is  an-xi-ous  to  go." 

Reckage  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak.  He  bowed 
to  Mandeville,  he  bowed  to  the  lady,  and  strode  out. 
Hercy  hastened  after  him,  and  Orange,  fearing  a  scene 
between  the  brothers,  thanked  Mrs.  Mandeville  for  her 
attention,  and  followed  also. 

"Come  out  into  the  air,"  said  Reckage.  "I  can't 
stand  this.     Come  out  into  the  air  !  " 

The  two  young  men  were  livid  with  disgust  and  anger. 
Each  saw  in  the  other  the  embodiment  of  the  qualities  he 
most  detested  in  himself.  Each  was  at  war,  as  it  were, 
with  his  own  weakness.  Each  beheld  in  the  flesh,  his 
supposed  worse  nature.  There  was  not  too  little — there 
was  too  much — sympathy. 

"What  is  the  matter?  "  said  Hercy,  in  a  tone  of  frigid 
politeness.  They  had  reached  the  garden.  "  I  must  beg 
you  to  be  civil  to  my  friends  when  you  come  to  my 
Studio.  Your  manner  is  impossible.  You  have  offended 
Mrs  Mandeville." 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  She  practically  ordered  me  out  of 
the  house.  She  is  an  outrageous  person.  I  have  never 
before  met  anything  of  the  kind — anywhere  !  " 

"You  have  insulted  a — lady  for  whom  I  have  the 
highest  respect,"  repeated  Hercy,  doggedly.  "  And  don't 
imagine  any  Clytemnestra  business,  either.  It's  abso- 
lutely Platonic." 

' '  You  young  fool !  I  wasn't  doubting  that.  I  was  only 
wondering  whether  it  was  not  ridiculous.  It  is  so  vulgar. 
It  is  so  revolting.     It  is  so  unspeakably  fifth-rate  !  " 

"That  will  do.     I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more." 

"  But  as  a  duty,  I  tell  you  that  you  are  ruining  your 
life." 

"My  life  is  my  own." 

"  But  you  owe  something  to  your  family." 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS  385 

'•lean  change  my  name.  I  don't  want  it.  .  .  .  And 
yet,  I  sha'n't  drop  it  just  to  please  you.  Everyone  says 
that  you  are  a  prig.  I  wish  I  could  get  myself  to  believe 
that  this  was  a  lie.  But,  on  the  contrary,  I  feel  it 
strongly." 

"  I  have  felt  in  you  exactly  what  you  feel  in  me." 

"Then  why  don't  you  leave  me  alone?  I  shall  always 
hit  back.  You  can  depend  on  that,  at  any  rate.  I  wish 
you  were  dead.  I  never  wish  to  see  your  face  again.  I 
wish  you  were  dead." 

Reckage  gave  him  one  white  look,  and  left  him. 

"  He  was  to  blame,"  said  Hercy,  turning  to  Orange. 
"  I  swear  he  was  to  blame.  He  doesn't  understand,  and 
he  won't  understand.  He  is  most  unfair  to  that  poor 
little  woman.  She  is  a  spoilt  child — that's  all.  One 
cannot  take  her  seriously.  I  know  that  her  manners  are 
bad.  But  her  mother  died  when  she  was  born,  and  she 
has  knocked  about  a  good  deal  in  rather  shady  society. 
Mandeville  is  very  fond  of  her,  but  he  is  engrossed  in  his 
Music.  That  is  why  I  go  out  of  my  way  to  be  kind  to 
her.  Can't  I  try  to  make  someone's  life  a  little  bit 
brighter  and  happier  without  being  .  .  .  hounded  off  the 
earth  ?  " 

He  nearly  wept,  but  with  an  effort  he  controlled 
himself. 

"  Besides,"  said  he,  "these  people  have  got  perceptions. 
They  see  what  I  mean  even  when  it  isn't  all  put  exactly 
on  the  canvas.  They  know  what  I  want  to  do.  They 
treat  me  as  though  I  were  an  artist.  And  I  am  an  artist. 
My  soul  is  an  artist's  soul." 

"I  am  sure  of  that,  Hercy." 

"Then   why  don't   Beauclerk  see  it .?     lam   unable  to 

exist  without  sympathy.     And  I  love  Art.     I  live  for  Art. 

I  get  tired  of  our  uninteresting,   arid,  departmental  set. 

They  are  only  human  when  they  want  something  material 

25 


386  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

which  they  cannot  have — a  vacant  Garter,  good  husbands 
for  the  poor  girls,  or  some  such  damnation  nonsense. 
Then  they  can  show  vitality  enough  for  all  Billingsgate. 
I  despise  them.  1  reject  them.  Let  them  call  me  the 
Philippe  Egaliie  of  the  family.  I  don't  care.  They 
never  understood  me.  I  am  sick  of  sitting  on  Gallery 
stools  copying  'old  masters.'  I  want  to  think  of  beau- 
tiful things.      I  want  to  get  a  little  oilajoie  de  vivre." 

"  Her-cee  !  "  called  Flamma  from  the  window,  "'  Her- 
cee,  when  you  come  back  fetch  me  my  cloak  from  the 
hall,  I  am  ver-ee  cold.  And  Philip  ees  as-leep.  He  ees 
tired  of  waiting." 

"I  must  go,"  he  said,  hurriedly.  "I  must  not  forget 
my  other  guests.     Good-bye,  Robert." 

He  shook  Robert's  hand,  and  limped  back  painfully 
toward  the  narrow  hall  where  the  pastilles  were  still 
burning.  Once  he  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  his  old 
friend. 

"Art,"  said  he,  with  trembling  lips,  "Art  is  every- 
thing .   .   .   really." 

And  he  went  in.  And  the  door  closed.  And  Flamma's 
dreadful  laugh — like  a  jackal's — came  out  through  the 
Studio  window. 

Orange,  on  gaining  the  road,  found  Reckage  waiting 
for  him. 

"Before  God,  Bob,"  said  he,  passionately,  "I  can't 
feel  that  I  am  in  the  wrong.  It  is  too  bitter.  Here  am  I, 
half-killing  myself  if  the  truth  were  known,  in  order  to  do 
my  duty,  and  all  that.  As  for  youth,  ain't  I  young.?  ain't 
I  Hercy's  own  agcf"  couldn't  I  talk  this  nauseating  slip- 
slop about  lajoie  de  vivre,  and  souls.?  couldn't  I  go  about 
amusing  myself  with  low  standard  ruffians,  who  put  no 
strain  upon  you  in  the  way  of  keeping  you  up  to  the  right 
pitch.?  don't  I  get  tired  sometimes  of  being  with  thoroughly 
nice  people .?     It's  so  easy  and  comfortable  to  let  yourself 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  387 

drop,  and  be  declassi.  It's  merely  rolling  down  a  soft 
hill  into  a  dung-heap.  And  shall  I  see  Hercy  go,  and 
never  put  a  finger  out  to  stop  him  ?  Perhaps  I  haven't 
got  a  tactful  way  of  setting  to  work,  but  tact  or  no  tact  I 
will  do  my  duty,  please  God.  I  shall  go  home — after 
this  Committee  Meeting,  and  write  Hercy  a  letter  that 
will  make  him  sit  up.  Even  Mandeville  and  his  wife  have 
a  contempt  for  him.  I  saw  it.  ATy  brother  !  He  is  an 
awful  young  fool,  but  he  is  an  angel  in  comparison  with 
those  sodden  impostors.     It  is  too  bitter  !  " 

Robert,  still  under  the  horror  of  Hercy's  final  disap- 
pearance, could  think  of  nothing  except  a  butterfly  which 
he  had  once  seen  flying,  like  a  heart's-ease  on  the  wing, 
into  a  cage  of  two  famishing  toads.  But  Hercy,  after 
all,  was  not  a  butterfly.  He  was  a  man  with  a  soul,  and 
an  eternal  destiny. 

"And  then  those  pictures,"  said  Reckage,  "those  per- 
fectly dreadful  pictures  !  I  can  say  one  thing  for  'em — 
they  may  be  bad,  but,  I  swear,  they  ain't  vulgar.  He 
paints  like  a  gentleman." 

"  He's  a  genius." 

"Do  you  think  so  .?  But  we  don't  want  any  Byrons  in 
our  family.  They  are  no  good.  I  have  a  feeling  now 
that  Hercy  will  go  out  of  my  life  for  ever.  This  is  one 
of  those  rows  that  never  come  right.  And  I  am  very  fond 
of  him.  I  love  Hercy.  He  is  my  own  brother.  I  can't 
talk  about  it.      He  is  done  for." 

"Oh,  well — as  to  that,"  said  Orange,  "surely  God  is 
still  stronger  than  a  little  woman  with  painted  eyes." 

"Oh,  yes, "  said  Reckage,  "God  .  .  .  but  ...  I  am 
his  brother.  He  ought  to  have  listened  to  me."  Then, 
with  every  muscle  of  his  face  in  anguish,  he  said  that 
he  must   pull   himself  together  for  the  Committee  Meet- 


ing. 


"And  where  are  you  going?"  he  asked  Robert. 


3iiS  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTa 

Robert  blushed. 

"I  know,"  said  Reckage,  calling  a  cab,  "I  always 
forget  !  You  are  going  to  walk  miles  just  to  take  one 
more  look  at  that  Convent." 

Forcing  a  smile,  he  sprang  into  the  hansom  and  drove 
away.  He  meditated  on  the  selfishness  of  all  men  in 
love,  and  recollected  the  headings  of  his  Speech  to  the 
Committee: — i.  The  necessity  for  concerted  action. 
2.  Suggestions  for  the  founding  of  some  Theological 
Society  (on  the  lines  of  the  Royal  Society)  for  the  discus- 
sion of  matters  of  Faith,  Doctrine,  and  Discipline  in  the 
Established  Church.  Laymen — with  peculiar  and  ad- 
mitted qualifications — to  be  permitted,  in  certain  circum- 
stances, to  take  part  in  the  same.  3.  A  resolution  to 
destroy,  if  possible,  the  objectionable  term  High  Church. 
4.  A  resolution  to  speak  on  all  occasions  of  The  Holy 
English  Church  Catholic — as  opposed  to  all  other  heresies 
in  England,  or  out  of  it. 

And  when  tears  started  to  his  eyes  at  the  remembrance 
of  Hercy,  he  took  out  his  note-book  and  drew  a  ground- 
plan  for  a  proposed  Theological  Seminary  to  be  built — 
at  Oxford,  or  at  Cambridge,  or  at  York,  or  at  Canterbury, 
or  in  London,  or — up  the  river. 

Robert,  led  by  habit  to  his  favorite  walk,  went,  at  a 
swinging  pace,  toward  the  Convent.  But  the  undisguised 
despair  of  Hercy,  and  the  subtler  discontent  of  Lord 
Reckage,  had  driven  every  thought,  except  anxiety  for 
these  friends,  from  his  mind.  At  every  turning  he  seemed 
to  see  the  Mandevilles.  Their  faces — one,  with  its 
withered  youth,  the  other,  with  its  silly  imitation  of  De 
Musset — pursued  him  in  the  air.  And,  fainter  than  these, 
he  saw  the  sweet  countenance  of  Agnes  Carillon,  and  the 
mocking  eyes  (not  especially  fine,  either)  of  that  dead, 
that  unforgettable  "cousin  Amy."  It  is  always  easy  to 
say  of  another's  misfortune,  "What  does  it  matter  to  me," 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  389 

or  "There  must  be  these  sentimental — these  emotional 
crises.  They  form  the  character.  It  is  all  for  the  best 
— God  is  good!  "  All  these  things  are  true  in  substance  ; 
all  these  things  occur  invariably  to  the  wise  spectator  of 
hun-an  fates.  But  more  than  wisdom— more  than  the 
formal  utterances  of  piety  is  sometimes  required  of  us, 
and,  while  a  sleepless  night  for  your  neighbor's  woe  may 
not  assist  him  materially  in  his  trouble,  we  know  that  the 
Divine  Economy  permits  nothing  to  be  wasted.  Every 
unselfish  thought  sends  a  lasting  fragrance  into  the  whole 
moral  atmosphere  of  the  world.  Orange  was  not  the 
man  to  express  his  sympathies  by  those  marked  outward 
signs  and  injudicious  words  which  add  so  often  but  a 
fresh  irritation  to  the  unhappy.  It  was  a  sympathy  that 
worked  within  on  his  own  spirit  till  he  became — no  longer 
the  witness,  but  the  partaker  of  his  friend's  sorrow.  And 
so,  when  he  reached  the  Convent,  he  almost  forgot  his 
reason  for  going  there.  He  was  still  with  Hercy,  strug- 
gling in  pastilles  and  squalor  for  the  realization  of  the 
beautiful  in  theory.  He  was  still  with  poor  Reckage, 
who  was  heroically  willing  to  offer  everything  to  God,  ex- 
cept his  own  family's  idea  of  God.  To  this  he  clung  insane- 
ly, with  the  fatal  persistence  of  a  man  who  has  one  genuine 
belief,  and  a  number  of  opinions.  He  believed  in  the 
noble  family  of  Almouth:  he  found  it  hard— even  vulgar 
— to  doubt  the  existence  of  a  Divine  Providence.  His 
very  desire  to  escape  vulgarity,  had,  however,  something 
vulgar  in  its  essence.  He  was  religious,  in  the  way  that 
he  wished  Hercy  to  paint  "like  a  gentleman."  Robert — 
while  he  winced  a  little — understood  and  appreciated  this 
particular  taste.  It  made,  at  any  rate,  for  chivalry. 
Conscious  refinement  may  not  be  wholly  pleasing,  but  it 
is  an  incomparably  better  thing  than  grossness,  whether 
conscious  or  unconscious.  And  then  his  lordship  was 
young — not  yet  thirty. 


390  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"We  must  all  get  through  a  lot  of  whippings  yet  I* 
thought  Robert. 

There  stood  the  Convent,  solemn  and  invincible,  with 
the  glory  of  the  evening  sky  coloring  its  windows,  and 
its  austere  walls  glistening,  as  if  with  amethysts  and  •  op- 
per,  in  the  sunset.  It  was  the  hour  for  the  Rosary  and 
Benediction,  and,  as  Orange  passed,  the  organ  notes  came 
sobbing  through  the  air.  He  could  hear  the  nuns'  pure, 
almost  unearthly  voices  singing  the  beautiful  Litany  of 
Loreto  : — 

Rosa  Mystica, 
Turris  Davidica, 
Turris  Ehurnea, 


Ora  pro  nobis. 


And  again, — 

Sal'us  infirmorum, 
Re/ugiiini  peccatorum, 
Consolairix  afflicUorutn. 


Ora  pro  nobis. 


He  waited,  listening  till  the  end,  pressing  his  Crucifix  a 
little  closer,  yet  almost  refusing  the  sudden  happiness  of 
his  mood,  the  unexpected  miraculous  lifting-up  of  his 
heart.  He  feared  to  be  selfish,  and  hastened  on  to  Wight 
House,  hoping  a  little  that  Hercy  might  come  in  the  even- 
ing, if  only  to  weigh  arguments  against  his  brother's  con- 
duct. 

He  found  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  sipping  tea  and  eating 
bread-and-butter  in  the  Library.  She  had  her  little  feet 
on  the  fender  :  her  gloves  and  umbrella  were  on  the  ground 
by  the  side  of  her  chair.  Her  veil,  or  Fall,  was  lifted 
severely  just  to  her  eyebrows — showing  her  face,  which 
was  pale,  rather  sharpened,  yet  as  charming  as  ever. 
The  curls,   however,    were  twisted  up  out  of  sight  in  her 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  391 

chignon,  and  she  was  dressed  in  a  dark  stuff  gown,  a  dark 
shawl,  and  her  gloomiest  velvet  bonnet. 

"I  find,"  said  she,  as  Robert  entered,  "that  I  have 
missed  Uncle.  But  I  was  determined  to  see  you.  Let  me 
give  you  some  tea.  I  came  all  the  way  from  Catesby.  I 
brought  my  maid  and  my  box.  I  was  going  on  to  Slat- 
rach.  I  was,  indeed.  I  feel  that  I  have  been  treated  very 
shabbily.  I  have  always  been  told  quil  njy  a  rieji  de  si 
volage  as  a  Frenchwoman.  I  can  believe  it.  I  am  really 
angry.     Last  night  I  was  frantic." 

"  I  saw   Brigit  this  morning  and — " 

*'  No  doubt.  I  suppose  she  telegraphed  to  both  of  us. 
But  how  madly  she  has  acted  !  Mudara  seemed  a  re- 
markably bad  sort  of  person,  yet  surely  she  could  feel  safe 
with  me?  I  cannot  forgive  it.  She  always  seemed  so 
true,  so  feeling,  so  practical." 

"She  was  desperate.  When  I  tell  you  all  the  circum- 
stances— " 

"  No  circumstances  can  give  me  back  my  hours  of 
agony  last  night.  What  was  I  to  think.?  I  was  filled 
with  a  kind  of  shuddering  horror.  I  must  know  where  I 
am  with  people.  Brigit  is  delightful  and  dans  le  meilleur 
genre  :  I  liked  her  earnest  desire  of  doing  right.  She  has, 
too,  that  don  du  del  of  never  being  de  trop.  I  didn't  re- 
gard her  in  the  least  as  a  foreigner.  She  was  always  so 
thoroughly  well-bred — quite  English,  in  fact,  in  all  her 
ways.     And  now,  this  ! 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  wait  till  you  hear  all  the  facts  of 
the  case.      I  am  responsible  for  the  whole  thing.      I — " 

"And  I  have  been  so  fond  of  her,  and  so  kind  to  her." 

"An  angel!  But  if  you  will  only  listen,  and  be  kind 
a  little  longer.     You  remember  your  advice  to  me?" 

"I  have  given  you  so  much  advice  on  so  many  sub- 
jects,  Robert." 

"  But  your  advice  yesterday — about  marriage." 


392  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"Oh!" 

"  I  have  spoken  to  her." 

"Not  already?" 

"  Didn't   you   say   that   all    the   circumstances   were 
unusual  ?  " 

Although  there  was  no  fire,  she  stretched  out  her  hands 
over  the  fire-place. 

"  I  am  so  glad, "  she  said,  at  last.  ' *  I  am  toothachy  and 
tired  to-day.  I  can't  appear  so  pleased  as  I  feel.  Dear 
Robert,  I  am  quite,  quite  delighted.  It  is  the  best  thing. 
But  I  wish,  somehow,  that  I  could  imagine  you  married. 
You  always  look /e  moins  mari  que  possible.  You  have 
got  an  ecclesiastical,  anti-domestic  air.  I  suppose  you 
love  her  very  much.     Beauty  is  such  a  power,   isn't  it  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is." 

"Love,  I  feel  sure,  has  but  one  cause,  and  that  cause 
is  beauty.  The  proudest,  the  coldest,  the  sternest,  the 
saintliest  men  have  to  submit  to  its  influence." 

"And  why  not.''  Are  you  still  heretic  enough  to  think 
that  only  the  manifestations  of  the  devil  are  alluring?  Has 
God  then  made  nothing  fair?  Can  He  show  nothing  at- 
tractive ?  Is  all  the  loveliness,  and  joy,  and  ecstacy  in 
Babylon,  and  all  the  ugliness,  and  desolation,  and  pain 
in  the  kingdom  of  God?  " 

"Oh,  no;  I  never  meant  that.  Don't  we  know  that 
Job,  after  his  trial,  was  blessed  by  the  Lord,  and  was 
given,  besides  seven  sons  and  an  enormous  amount  of  cat- 
tle, three  daughters?  'And  in  all  the  land,'  we  are  told, 
'were  no  women  found  so  fair  as  the  daughters  of  Job.' 
In  some  creatures,  therefore,  beauty  is  clearly  meant  to 
be  a  blessing.  Brigit  is  a  fortunate  girl.  Because  I  be- 
lieve, too,  you  are  the  sort  of  man  who  would  perhaps 
love  a  woman,  in  the  first  place,  for  her  appearance,  and 
afterwards,  when  it  had  gone,  on  principle  !  Lionel  was 
the  same.     I  hope  my  boy  will  grow  up  like  him.     He  is 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  393 

such  a  darling  at  present,  and  writes  the  cleverest  essays, 
full  of  Latin  quotations.  Isn't  it  nice  for  me  !  And  so 
wonderful  of  his  governess." 

"  Astonishing." 

"You  look  as  though  you  wished  to  ask  me  some- 
thing." 

"  I  want  you  to  go  and  see  Brigit. " 

"  At  the  Convent  ?  How  interesting  !  But  I  sha'n't  go. 
I  don't  see  why  I  should.  I  am  very  cross  with  her.  I 
am  much  too  fond  of  her  to  forgive  her  so  easily."         _ 

"  In  that  case,  I  won't  urge  you." 

"  It  would  be  dear  to  see  her,  too  !  What  is  she  going 
to  be  married  in  ? " 

"  Give  her  your  advice." 

"  She  wouldn't  take  it.  Wait  till  you  know  her  !  An 
angel,  but  a  mule.  Yet  I  shall  miss  her  horribly.  Who 
can  fill  up  her  place  ?  " 

"  Do  go  and  see  her." 

She  stood  up,  pulled  down  her  veil,  and  waited  for 
Robert  to  kneel  down  for  her  gloves. 

"  I  know  how  it  will  be,"  she  said,  taking  them.  "You 
will  both  be  very  happy,  and  speak  of  me  to  each  other 
as  'that  dear  tiresome  creature.'  And  I  shall  be  expected 
to  adore  your  children.  And  I  am  such  a  fool  that  I  shall 
do  it.  And  each  time  I  meet  you,  I  shall  have  to  say, 
'Brigit  grows  lovelier  every  year.'  And  I  am  such  a 
silly,  that  I  shall  say  it,  and  think  it,  too.  Of  course,  she 
is  quite  too  lovely.  What  hair !  what  eyes  I  what  a 
fio-ure !  Never  mind.  Lionel  admired  me.  God  bless 
you,  dear  Robert.  You  are  always  the  same.  One 
pours  out  one's  soul  to  yo\i,  and  one  tells  you  everything, 
and  afterwards,  one  remembers  that  you  have  told,  on 
your  part,  nothing  !  Lord  Reckage  and  Berenville  have 
mentioned  that  peculiarity  again  and  again.  Before  I 
go,  I  have  a  little  news  for  you. " 


394  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

"  I  long  to  hear  it." 

"  Frainlingham  has  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"  What  impudence  !  " 

"  Poor  old  Fram  !  Brigit  says  that  he  simpers  like  a 
cupid  on  a  wedding-cake.      I  think  he  would  be  kind." 

"  You  can't  marry  him  unless  you  love  him." 

' '  There  you  are — a  Turk,  like  the  rest.     Oh,  so  selfish  !  " 

"  But,  I  ask  you,  could  you,  calling  him  '  poor  old 
Fram,'  marry  him  ?  " 

"How  do  I  know?  I  get  very  lonely.  Everyone 
quotes  the  Queen.  They  say,  '  Look  at  the  dear  Queen. 
What  a  pattern  ! '  But  she  is  older  than  I  am.  Her 
children  are  grown  up." 

"You  mustn't  marry  Framlingham.  It  would  be  a 
crime. " 

"  A  crime,  Mr.  Jealous  ?  " 

"  You  are  much  happier  as  you  are." 

"  Yes,  admiring  you  and  Brigit.  What  greater  joy 
could  I  ask  in  life  ?  Don't  get  red.  It  is  not  my  fault 
that  I  understand  men.  Even  Fitz  Rewes,  who  was  the 
very  image  of  King  Arthur  and  the  Prince  Consort,  loved 
three  other  women — besides  me,  pretty  well.  He  was 
furious  when  they  married — which  they  very  sensibly  did. 
And  he  was  godfather  all  round — which  he  hated.  But 
he  managed  to  look  like  an  archangel  when  he  stood  at 
the  Font.  He  had  such  control  of  his  expression.  Dear 
Robert,  I  sha'n't  marry  poor  Fram.  Don't  worry  about  it. 
I  hate  his  old  barrack  of  a  place  in  Shropshire.  And  I  do 
so  dislike  the  back  of  his  head.  It  is  maddening.  And 
now  put  me  in  a  four-wheeler.  And  choose  the  cabman 
carefully — some  nice,  steady  old  thing,  with  a  happy- 
looking  horse.  You  are  looking  very  handsome,  dear, 
but  not  so  free  from  cares  as  I  could  wish.  I  shall  be 
rather  stiff  with  Brigit  at  first,  because  I  am  really  cross. 
Good-bye.     God  bless  you  !  " 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  395 

These  were  her  last  words  as  she  stepped  into  the  cab, 
Her  eyes,  under  the  Fall,  were  extraordinarily  bright. 
In  driving  away,  she  waved  her  hand  from  the  window 
with  the  childish  grace  which  characterized  all  her  move- 
ments. Robert  watched  her  out  of  sight,  knowing  well, 
that  when  the  vehicle  reached  the  corner,  she  would  look 
forth  again. 

"  Dear  little  soul  !  "  he  was  thinking. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  little  soul,  but  the  smallest  birds  may 
rise — though  imperceptibly — to  heights  past  humaii  vision, 
to  the  stars. 


396  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  year  1869,  which  had  proved  an  eventful  one  for 
Orange,  was  fast  drawing  to  its  close.  He  was  at  that 
crisis  in  his  life  when  young  men,  who  are  in  earnest, 
seem  a  little  unsociable  in  comparison  with  those  genial, 
easy-going  persons  who  manage,  nevertheless,  to  disap- 
point their  fi lends  when  life  at  last  has  to  be  lived  rather 
than  agreeably  criticised.  Few  things  are  more  pathetic 
than  the  middle-age  of  one  who,  in  his  youth,  has  en- 
joyed, by  universal  consent,  a  brilliant  future.  The  actual 
Future  comes.  It  gives  the  lie  to  post-prandial  prophets, 
and  "universal  consent"  always  accommodating,  tells 
reminiscences  of  its  poor  dupe's  brilliant  I'as/,  and 
wonders  why  so  charming  a  fellow  made  so  little  of  his 
opportunities.  Orange,  for  his  salvation,  was  never 
what  is  called  a  popular  man.  His  few  very  intimate 
friends  loved  him  devotedly,  yet  always  listened,  with 
peculiar  secret  pleasure,  to  his  detractors.  He  was,  they 
would  admit,  rather  annoying  at  times,  a  trifle  overbearing 
perhaps,  and  lamentably  dogmatic.  He  was  generous  to 
a  fault,  a  man  without  malice,  torgiving  injuries  to  the 
point  of  insensibility,  but,  on  matters  of  religious  faith,  or 
literature,  as  great  a  despot  as  Sir  Thomas  More — a  man 
that  would  burn  you  and  be  beheaded  himself  sooner 
then  yield  an  inch.  Robert — "dear  old  Robert" — was 
never  "one  of  themselves."  He  stood  with  them,  yet 
apart — a  perplexing  personality.  Disraeli  understood 
him,  but  the  great  difference  in  their  respective  ages  and 
importance  in  the  world,  rendered  any  cl'^se  companion- 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  397 

ship  between  the  two  impossible.  Orange  was  therefore 
a  solitary  figure,  and,  but  for  Brigit,  and  Lady  FitzRewes, 
he  would  have  been,  during  his  early  manhood,  certainly, 
a  most  unhappy  one. 

The  night,  after  Pensde's  visit  to  Wight  House,  we 
find  him  writing  thus  to  Brigit  : — 

I  am  going  to  compose  a  little  book  about  you,  dearest.  I 
have  called  it,  "  To  Kalliste  in  Exile."     This  is  its  motto  : — 

Giu  per  lo  mondo  senza  fiiie  amaro, 
e  per  lo  tnonte,  del  cui  bel  cacnme 
gli  occhi  della  mia  Donna  mi  levaro  ; 
e  poscia  per  lo  del,  di  lume  in  lume. 
ho  io  appreso  quel  che,  s'io  ridico, 
a  molti  fia  savor  di  forte  agrume; 
e  s'io  at  vera  son  tint  id o  amico, 
temo  di  perder  vita  tra  color o 
che  questo  te7npo  chiameranno  antico.* 

The  book  will  not  please  me,  but  you  will  understand  it,  and 
that  will  be  everything.  You  will  have  seen  Pens^e  when  you 
receive  this.  Your  letter — describing  her,  the  meeting,  the  con- 
versation !  Can  1  wait  for  the  post  ?  Yet  what  a  pure  life  it  is 
— it  is  like  the  finest  string  on  some  celestial  harp.  It  can  utter 
just  one — very  delicate,  very  sweet — all  but  inaudible  note. 
Yet  without  it,  all  the  music  of  one's  life  would  suffer.  What 
she  says  never  matters.  I  hold  out  my  hand  and  expect  her, 
bird-like,  to  perch  there.  Make  what  you  can,  dear  heart,  of 
these  mixed  metaphors.  I  would  take  out  the  last,  but,  as  it  is 
true,  I  must  leave  it.     I  am  interrupted.     A  caller.  .  .   . 

The  caller  was  Baron  Zeuill.     He  came   himself  in   reply  to 

*  Down  through  the  world  of  infinite  bitterness. 
And  o'er  the  mountain,  from  whose  beauteous  summit 
The  eyes  of  my  own  Lady  lifted  me ; 
And  afterwards  through  heaven,  from  light  to  light. 
I  have  learned  that  which,  if  I  tell  again, 
Will  be  a  savor  of  strong  herbs  to  many; 
And  if  I  be  a  timid  friend  to  truth, 
I  fear  lest  I  may  lose  my  life  with  thos« 
Who  will  hereafter  call  this  time  the  olden. 

Dante,  Par.  xvii.  112.     Longfellow's  translation. 


398  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

my  letter.  Zeuill,  though  of  good  abilities,  is  of  so  tortuous  a 
nature,  that  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  deal  with  him.  He  pro- 
fessed the  greatest  pleasure  at  our  news  :  he  repudiated,  with- 
out a  word  from  me,  Mudara's  insolence  :  he  advised,  in  the 
strongest  terms,  our  early  marriage.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
I  have  acted  for  what  I  thought  the  best,  and  after  the  consid- 
eration of  more  than  three  days.  But  I  confess  that  I  am  not 
wholly  satisfied  with  Zeuill's  manner.  He  is  well-meaning,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  insincere — also,  disturbed  in  mind.  He 
would  open  his  mouth,  seem  about  to  speak,  and  then  check 
himself.  This  was  the  rule  during  our  interview.  When  he 
did  say  anything,  it  was  always  the  third  or  fourth  thought, 
never  the  first.  He  dwelt  at  some  length  on  political  matters, 
and  expressed  a  hope  that  you  would  never  mix  in  them. 

"  I  don't  care  how  clever  a  woman  may  be,"  said  he,  "  so  long 
as  she  keeps  her  knowledge  to  herself.  The  emotional  sex  can 
excite  enthusiasm,  but  they  cannot  control  it.  The  good  ones 
are  satisfied  with  nothing  short  of  martyrdom,  and  the  bad 
ones  will  give  you  no  rest  till  you  become  an  assassin." 

This  was,  in  its  way,  true  enough.  He  called  Castrillon  "a 
vacant  aristocrat,"  and  returning  again  to  the  subject  of  Mudara, 
he  observed, — 

"  The  personal  character  of  that  man  is  not  such  as  I  should 
willingly  choose  for  an  associate  in  any  delicate  matter.  He  is 
an  apostate  priest.  I  make  no  secret  of  my  disapproval  of  the 
Roman  and  Greek  Churches,  yet  I  never  like  any  one  the  better 
for  leaving  them — unless  the  Greek  becomes  a  Roman." 

At  this  point,  he  asked  me,  with  a  strange  glance,  whether  I 
had  ever  wished  to  take  Holy  Orders. 

"  The  thought  has  often  been  in  my  mind,"  I  answered,  "  but 
it  has  never  yet  seemed  a  distinct  vocation.  That  is  why  I  am 
a  layman." 

"  Surely,"  said  he,  «•  you  are  too  philosophic  to  leave  the  solid 
pleasures  of  this  abused  world,  and  exchange  manly  cares  for 
visionary  burdens,  responsibilities  for  the  scourge,  healthy  sor- 
rows for  hysterical  woes,  and  genuine  happiness  for  the  enervat- 
ing imaginations  of  a  starving  stomach  packed  in  a  hair-shirt !  " 

"If  the  Church  taught  philosophy  only,  the  Catholic  Faith 
would  not  be  a  religion,"  said  I  ;  "  but  have  you  ever  tried 
asceticism  ?  " 

"  As  one  man  to  another,"  said  he,  "no,  I  have  not.  What 
makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"I  did  not  think  so,"  I  replied  ;  your  description  of  the  life 
torbade  the  supposition.  But  devote — say  a  week — to  the  rule 
of  the  Jesuits  or  the  Carmelites  or  the  Dominicans,  one  week 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  399 

only,  I  ask  for  no  more,  and  then  you  may  be  better  fitted  to 
form  an  opinion  of  the  men  who  give — not  seven  days — but  all 
their  years  to  such  discipline.     Try  it  !  " 

"  I  have  the  highest  regard,  M.  de  Haus6e,"  said  he,  "  for  the 
courage  and  endurance  of  these  ascetics,  yet,  I  repeat,  1  have  no 
patience  with  their  theories  of  life.  Why  should  I  make  myself 
wretched  when  I  am  blessed  with  health  ?  Why  should  I  fast 
when  I  have  an  excellent  digestion  .-*  Shall  I  correct  the  wisdom 
of  Providence,  and  put  what  is  orderly  into  complete  disorder  .'' 
I  speak  neither  as  a  Jew  nor  as  a  Pagan,  but  as  a  critic." 

"  Wait !  "  said  I,  "you  go  too  quickly.  Ascetics,  \n  the  first 
place,  do  not  make  themselves  wretched,  nor  are  they  wretched 
in  the  sense  you  mean.  A  man  may  choose  to  abstain  from 
many  lawful  things  as  a  satisfaction  for  sins — not  necessarily 
all  his  own.  They  may  include  yours,  and  mme,  also  !  Again  : 
what  is  needed  in  the  service  of  God  ?  weak  knees,  weak  backs, 
and  sickly  minds  ?  No,  the  ascetic  must  learn  endurance, 
fortitude,  and  self-command.  He  has  to  bring  his  body  not  to 
destruction,  but  into  subjection.  He  must  not  lose  his  health, 
but  perfect  it.  Finally,  he  must  be  as  unknown,  yet  well  known, 
as  sorrowful,  yet  always  rejoicing,  as  needy,  yet  making  many 
rich,  as  having  nothing,  and  possessing  all  things.  This  is  not 
precisely  the  state  of  mind  you  just  described,  and,  you  will  ad- 
mit that  St.  Paul  knew  more  about  such  matters  than  either 
of  us  !  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  I  spoke  a  little  widely  !  For  all  that,  however, 
what  earthly  lovers  have  suffered  such  misery  as  the  saints  ? 
God,  in  all  the  prayers  and  colloquies  of  his  elect,  seems  more 
capricious  than  any  human  being — now  kind,  now  unkind,  now 
with  His  disciples,  now  hiding  the  light  of  His  countenance 
from  them,  now  showering  graces,  and  now  drenching  them  in 
the  waters  of  affliction.  The  Sorrows  of  IVerther  are  nothing 
in  comparison  with  the  woes  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  !" 

"  When  it  has  been  proved,"  said  I,  "  that  we  have  the  right  to 
expect  incessant  happiness  in  any  state  on  this  earth,  men  may 
justly  wonder  why  the  virtuous  have  ev^er  uttered  a  single 
lament.  But,  since  a  certain  amount  ofsuffering  and  impatience 
is,  with  other  things,  our  inevitable  portion,  I  would  rather  com- 
plain of  the  occasional  silence  of  Almighty  God  than  bemoan  the 
capers  of  some  little  minx  !  "  (Ah,  via  bien  aimee  !  But  you 
are  not  a  little  minx.) 

"  The  occasional  silence  of  God,"  said  Zeuill,  smiling.  "  Have 
you  ever  heard  Him,  even  out  of  the  whirlwind  ?  " 

"  Often,  and  out  of  everything." 

"  To  J'^^  God  in  everything — but  principally  in  one's  self — is 


400  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

what  your  English  writers  call  the  Higher  Pantheism  !  That 
view  is  a  harmless  vanity.  But  to  hear  Him  in  everything  is 
but  the  first  step  to  blind  obedience.  Humility  of  that  kind  is 
not  harmless.     It  is  a  great  danger." 

"  A  great  force,  no  doubt,  whereas  vanity  is  a  sort  ot  ocean 
without  water — a  huge  emptiness." 

"  Make  my  compliments  to  Madame,"  said  he,  "  and  tell  her 
she  had  better  marry  you  at  once,  or  Holy  Church  will  call  you, 
and  then — Adieu,  ma  mie  !  How  jealous  is  religion,  and  how 
cruel  !  " 

"Once  more,"  said  I,  "  I  must  disagree  with  you.  Religion  is 
the  one  thing  which  can  keep  men  and  women  constant  to  their 
ideals,  and  therefore  constant  in  their  human  affections.  All 
our  finest  ideas  of  romantic  chivalry  are  Roman  Catholic.  The 
Church  which  you  have  called  both  "cruel  and  jealous '  has 
told  us  that  Marriage  is  a  sacrament.  She  has  ever  labored  to 
inspire  men  with  a  reverence  lor  women.  Do  we  not  call  Holy 
Church  herself  our  Mother  ?  Is  not  the  Blessed  Virgin  our 
gracious  advocate,  vita,  dulcedo,  et  ipes  nostra  ?  No  true 
Catholic  husband  or  wife  could  ever  fear  the  '  influence  '  of 
Catholicism.  The  fears  would  be  for  the  influences  of  all  the 
putrid  philosophy  outside  it." 

One  would  have  thought  that  he  had  never  heard  of  these 
things  before.  But  he  over-acted  his  ignorance.  I  am  sure 
that  there  was  some  hidden  motive  in  every  word  he  uttered. 
This  is  why  I  repeat  the  conversation  to  you.  I  did  not  try  to 
change  the  topic.  I  made  my  remarks  with  perfect  freedom, 
without  taking  much  trouble  to  choose  the  terms  most  pleasing 
to  heretic  ears.  It  was  not  a  case  of  •  milk  for  babes,'  but  a 
time  to  meet  intelligent  impudence  with  the  elementary  truths  of 
the  penny  Catechism.  In  regard  to  discussing  such  matters 
with  '  critics '  of  Zeuill's  calibre,  I  have  invariably  set  my  face 
against  it,  and  have  never  consented  to  it,  or  done  it,  even  for 
half-an-hour,  in  any  instance.  All  that  these  people  care  about, 
as  a  rule,  is  the  display  of  their  own  wit,  and  how  to  carry  on 
the  war  against  the  Faith  and  the  Holy  See.  They  never  at- 
tend to  an  answer  with  an  intention  to  weigh  it,  or  sufficiently 
to  understand  it,  be  it  never  so  reasonable.  But  there  is  indeed, 
no  need  to  convince  them,  for,  like  evil  spirits,  they  know  too 
well  that  they  are  at  enmity  with  truth.  I  could  not  forget, 
however,  that  I  was  under  heavy  obligations  to  the  Baron.  I 
have  a  real  regard  for  him,  and,  in  the  total  absence  of  any 
proofs  against  his  smcerity,  I  must  show  the  gratitude  I 
honestly  feel  for  the  kindness  he  has  certainly  shown  to  both 
of  us. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  401 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  a  number  of  Catholics,"  he  said, 
abruptly,  "but  I  confess  you  seem  to  have  a  touch  of  the  real 
ecclesiastic.  It  is,  no  doubt,  to  some  degree  inherited."  (I  had 
of  course  told  him  all  I  knew  about  my  father's  marriage.) 
"Yet  heredity  does  not  explain  all  of  this." 

"  Do  we  not  all  live  always  in  a  triple  atmosphere — the  at- 
mosphere of  God,  the  atmosphere  of  Nature,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  humanity  ?  Some  natures  may  feel  any  one  of  these  three 
influences  in  a  predominant  degree,  and  so  we  get  what  are 
called  differences  in  temperament.  One  man  breathes  in 
humanity  first,  and  God  last.  A  second  will  put  Nature  last. 
A  third  will  put  Nature  first.  A  fourth  will  aspire  to  God  be- 
fore all  things,  and  all  creatures.  But  the  three  atmospheres 
are  ever  with  us,  and  make,  in  reality,  one  atmosphere.  You 
may  toil  through  many  volumes  of  Metaphysics,  and  you  will 
learn  no  higher  truth  than  that." 

"  True.  It  is  the  Ego,  Cosmos,  and  the  Absolute,"  said  he. 
"These  Germans  are  merely  dishing  up  the  Fathers  of  the 
Church  !  No  sublime  thmg  comes  from  the  North,  or  from  the 
Teutons.  You  get  your  God,  your  Scriptures,  your  inspiration, 
your  poetry,  your  vital  ideas  from  the  East.' 

His  whole  face  became  transfigured.  It  was,  for  the  moment, 
really  superb  with  an  heroic  contempt  for  the  barbarians  ot 
Europe.  But  the  mood  soon  passed,  and,  without  a  further 
word  on  the  subject  of  religion,  he  began  to  talk  about  the  final 
arrangements  for  our  marriage.  Wednesday  next  ?  He  re- 
ferred to  your  fortune.  I  am  selfish  enough  to  feel  sorry — deeply 
sorry — that  you  have  one.  I  could  not  discuss  the  point  at  all. 
It  was  a  great  surprise.  Let  me  forget  it.  .  .  .  Yet  why  didn't 
you  tell  me,  dearest  ?  I  remember  now  your  asking  me  whether 
I  disliked  rich  women  on  principle,  or  from  tyranny  ?  How 
could  I  have  guessed  what  you  meant  ?  I  said,  '  I  dislike  all 
rich  people  because  I  am  poor  and  I  want  to  build  Cathedrals  ! ' 
I  won't  reproach  you  till  I  see  you.  And  when  I  see  you,  I 
sha'n't  be  able  to  reproach  you.  .  .  .  Would  you  believe  it  ? 
I  am  wondering  at  present  how  much  Cathedrals  cost?  And 
it  \'s,  your  fortune  !  If  one  could  get  some  land  in  Westminster. 
.  .   .  Pray  for  it.   .   .   . 

As  you  wish  me  to  go  to  Slatrach,  I  shall  do  so,  but  for  one 
day  only,  and  after  I  have  made  everything  right  for  Wednes- 
day next.  Prince  Leitneritz  may  have  some  highly  important 
news. 

In  due  course,  the  Special  Licence  was  applied  for,  and 

obtained.     If  Zeuill  felt  the  least  misgiving  over  the  mat- 
?6 


402  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

ter,  he  did  not  betray  it.  We  read,  in  Mudara's  confes- 
sion, that  the  Baron  took  great  pleasure  in  the  thought 
that  he  was  making  ''  two  charming  Christians  innocently- 
happy.'  One  thing,  however,  must,  in  common  justice, 
be  remembered.  We  have  to  rely  on  Mudara  only  for 
our  knowledge  of  the  miserable  intrigue.  It  is  Mudara 
who  insists  on  Zeuill's  original  responsibility  for  the  over- 
tures to  Parflete.  It  is  Mudara  who  paints  himself  as 
overpersuaded,  in  the  first  instance,  to  such  "extreme 
measures."  There  is  a  possibility  that  Zeuill  was,  after 
all,  technically  innocent.  That  is  to  say,  he  may  have 
believed  that  Parflete  had  probably  committed  suicide. 
He  may  have  expected  some  fraud,  without  precisely  en- 
tertaining the  unwelcome  idea.  We  do  know,  beyond 
any  doubt,  that  Zeuill  was  held  in  general  respect  as  a 
man  of  his  word  ;  we  also  know,  beyond  any  doubt,  that 
Mudara  was  a  liar.  The  whole  facts  of  the  case  will  prob- 
ably never  come  to  light,  but  most  of  us  may  prefer  to 
feel  that  the  fewer  scoundrels  in  the  story,  the  better. 
The  wedding  day  was  fixed  for  October  the  17th. 

We  find  Robert  writing  to  Brigit  from  Slatrach  Castle  on 
October  12th: — 

This  ruin  stands  on  a  peak  above  one  of  the  many  small  bays 
of  the  Island  of  Gylen.  It  is  protected  by  a  natural  battlement 
formed  by  the  steep  irregular  cliffs,  which,  crowned  with  ver- 
dure on  the  level,  present  a  bleak  and  adamant  resistance  to 
the  water,  or,  at  low  tide,  a  perilous  ascent  to  any  one  who 
might  attempt  to  scale  them.  The  surrounding  land  is  broken 
up  into  deep  ravines  and  gorges,  green  valleys  and  steep  hills  a 
little  higher  than  the  Castle.  Larch,  fir,  and  spruce  are  to  be 
found  toward  the  centre  of  the  Isle,  but  all  along  the  coast  it  is 
either  marsh  land  where  the  rushes  grow,  or  v/ide  fields 
of  clover  where  the  scream  of  the  gull  and  the  cry  of  the  corn- 
crake mingle  with  the  incessant  moaning  of  the  sea  breaking 
itself  upon  the  granite  crags.  On  the  night  of  my  arrival  here, 
the  old  ruin  was  decked  in  all  the  splendor  of  the  sunset  : 
lights  were  burning  in  every  window  of  the  shooting-lodge  : 
Glencorbie  and  the  "  household,"  consisting  of  the  cook's  three 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  403 

sons,  great   giants    with    copper   cheek-bones,  were  waiting  to 
receive  me. 

All  the  foreign   visitors   are  here,  and  Wight  is  in  the    midst 
of  them  talking  Latin  in  four  languages  !  Of  all  the  party,  I  like 
best  Don  Pedro's  Chaplain   (a  learned  Dominican),  and  Prince 
Czestochowa  of  Poland.    This  young  man'sgrandfather  was  tak- 
en as   a  hostage  by  the  Empress  Catherine  of  Russia.     He  was 
treated  with  great  distinction  at  the  Russian  Court,  and  became 
the  intimate  companion  of  the  young  Grand-Duke  Alexander, 
afterwards  the  Emperor  Alexander  I.     He  was  given,  in  time, 
an  important  post  in  the  Government,  b'ut  no  consideration  could 
induce  him  to   forget  the  wrongs  of  Poland,  his  own  country. 
The  present  Prmce  is  an   intense   patriot,  consumed  with  sym- 
pathy for  Don  Carlos,  and  well  able  to  fight  for  him.     Prince 
Leitneritz  is  prepared   to  beggar  himself  for  the  same  cause. 
In  fact,  they  are  all  enthusiasts,  and  they  are  all  determined  to 
stand  for  God,  and  the  rights  of  the  most  Catholic  nation   in 
Europe.  Such  fine  fellows  are  not  easily  crushed — even  by  Prims 
and  Bismarcks.     But  they  see  great  troubles  ahead.     Prim,  they 
say,  is  plotting  with  Bismarck  in  one  direction,  and  with  the 
Emperor  of  the  French  in  another.     Prim  sees  that  Spain  can 
never  be  a  Republic.     He  fears   the  Bourbons,  but  he  would  be 
willing  to  offer   the  Crown  to    Montpensier.      The   Emperor, 
however,    will   not   have    an   Orleans   on    the  Spanish  throne. 
'  Spain,'  says  Prim,  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  '  cannot  per- 
mit her  election  of  a  Monarch  to  become  an  international  ques- 
tion.'    He    ignores  England.     It  was  the  unnecessary  fear  of 
England  that  interfered  with  the  marriage  of  Queen  Isabella 
and  Montpensier.     So  Prim  consults  with  Bismarck.     A  Prus- 
sian shall  occupy  the  throne  of  Charles  V.     The  crown  shall  be 
offered    to    Prince  Leopold  of  Hohenzollern.*     I   leave  you  to 
imagine  the  indignation,  the  resentment  of  the  Legitimists.     I 
am  thinking  of  the  many  thousand  lives  that  must  be  sacrificed 
before  this  outrage  can  be  wiped  out,     Wight  has  aged  about 
twenty  years  since    the   news.     Political   troubles   press  upon 
him  more  heavily  than  personal  griefs  weigh  on  the  majority  of 
men.     He  has  that  prophetic  soul   rarely  found  in  Saxons,  who 

*  The  reader  will  remember  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  the  event- 
ual nomination  of  this  Prince  which  led  to  the  Franco-Prussian  war  in 
1870,  and,  indirectly,  to  the  loss  of  the  Temporal  power  of  the  Pope. 
During  the  war,  the  French  troops  were  withdrawn  from  Rome,  and,  in 
the  absence  of  this  protection,  Victor  Emmanuel  annexed  the  Pontifical 
States  and  its  dependencies  to  the  Constitutional  Monarchy  of  Italy. 
This  meant  no  less  than  "  the  unlawful  dispossession  of  an  ancient  and 
legitimate  Government  held  for  one  thousand  years." 


404  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS. 

too  often  mistake  a  brutal  callousness  for  vigor  of  spirit.  .  .  . 
Dearest,  it  does  not  seem  the  moment  to  speak  of  our  own  hap- 
piness. The  Prince  of  the  powers  of  darkness  ir  surely  gather- 
ing his  forces  together,  and  the  cruellest  struggle  this  world 
has  yet  seen  is  still  to  come.  Still,  "  who  overcomes  by  force 
has  overcome  but  half  his  foe."  I  never  doubt  the  ultimate 
triumph  of  justice.  Spain  is  indeed  distressed,  and  yet  I  see 
in  England  a  prosperity  more  dangerous.  Trouble  makes 
friends  :  insolence  makes  enemies.  And  what  a  noisy,  barbaric, 
sham  insolence  it  is  !  The  men  who  struggle  for  the  public 
good  die — either  in  battle  or  from  over-work,  while  the  sharks, 
adventurers,  and  drones  share  in  the  results  of  victory  with- 
out having  to  pay  for  it,  either  in  blood  or  by  labor.  Don 
Pedro  asked  poor  Wight  whether  he  saw  all  the  English  news- 
papers. "  No,"  said  he,  "  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Ro- 
man Empire  give.?,  the  safer  information  !  The  daily  papers  are 
written  to  keep  the  public  misinformed  on  every  point.  I  merely 
read  them  now  and  again  in  order  to  learn  the  current  Lie  !  " 
...  It  is  vain  to  hope  that  the  British  Government  will  take 
an  active  interest  in  all  these  troubles.  England  associates 
Spain  with  the  wrecked  Armada,  and  France  with  the  down- 
fall of  Napoleon — who  was  not  French.  We  have  not  had  a 
statesman  since  Bolingbroke  who  understood  either  of  these 
great  nations.  And  Bolingbroke  ?  What  was  he  at  his  best  ? 
A  mind  attached  to  a  flunky.  I  long  to  see  you.  It  is  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  very  cold,  and  the  sea  seems  to  be 
crawling  over  the  land  in  search  of  prey.  At  five  I  leave  for 
London.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear  and  beautiful,  heart  of  life,  are  you 
mine  ?  .  .  . 

Robert  was  married  to  Mrs.  Parflete  on  October  27th, 
1869.  The  marriage,  as  the  reader  knows,  was  not  legal, 
for,  while  it  was  believed  that  the  lady  was  a  widow, 
Parflete  was  still  living.  Infinite  sorrow  came,  in  after 
years,  from  that  hasty  step.  But  in  1869,  Brigit  was 
seventeen  and  Robert  just  eight-and-twenty.  Haste,  in 
those  days,  seemed  slowness.  Lady  Fitz  Rewes  and 
Lord  Reckage  were  present  at  the  fatal  ceremony. 

"  Everyone,"  wrote  Pensde  to  her  uncle,  "  was  joyous.  The 
bride  was  a  vision  of  loveliness.  She  is  so  tall  and  white  and 
angelic.  Robert  was  dreadfully  pale,  but  entranced.  I  cried 
bitterly.     It  was  so  touching,  and  different  from  all  other  things 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SAINTS.  405 

of  the  kind  one  has  ever  seen.  It  would  have  made  a  picture. 
But  no  paint  could  express  Brigit's  whiteness  and  golden-ness. 
You  think  of  a  lily  in  the  sun,  and  then — that  isn't  it.  God 
bless  them  both." 

Lord  Wight  read  this  as  he  sat  on  the  cliff  at  Slatrach 
looking-  out  at  the  sea.  Don  Pedro's  Chaplain,  the  old 
learned  Dominican,  stood  by  him. 

"And  where  has  De  Hause'e  taken  his  bride .?"  asked 
the  old  priest. 

"To  the  Villa  Mirafiores,"  answered  the  old   bachelor. 

"  Where  is  that  .=■  " 

"It  is  near  an  ancient  fortress,  on  a  great  rock  on  the 
Northern  coast  of  France." 

"Well,"  said  the  Dominican,  "we  have  rocks  and  the 

sea  here." 

"Oh,   yes,"  answered  Lord   Wight,    "we  have  rocks 

and  the  sea — " 

"And   the  sky,"   added   the    priest,    "and   Almighty 

God." 

He  looked  up  as  he  spoke  to  the  heavens,  where  the 

sun  was  not  silent. 

"True.  But,"  said  Lord  Wight,  looking  with  a  sigh  at 
the  grim  ruins  of  Slatrach,  "  we  have  not  the  Villa  Mira- 
fiores.  ..." 

"Well,"  said  the  old  priest,  serenely:  "they  are  as 
happy  as  we  are,  mon  fils  !  For  there,  too,  at  Mirafiores, 
is  Almighty  God  1  " 

THE     END. 


AUTHOR'S   NOTE 

The  story  of  Orange's  married  life,  of  his  literary  and 
political  life  in  1870-1880,  of  his  friendship  with  Disraeli, 
and  of  his  career  in  the  Church,  will  be  told  in  a  sub- 
sequent volume. 


iW 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


1   ^1^^A« 


^&S[y 


^« 


^QSlI 


96 


"■jw/ 


Form  Ij-9 
20m-l, '41(1122) 


Uiirus&Bl^ 


..t 


3  1158  01 


69  7017 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  366  267    3 


PR 

4515 
C7s 


n 


.:<,at 


